Of She-Wolves and Bastard Bulls
by StarsAreMassive
Summary: A series of ficlets based on old prompts, all centred around Arya and Gendry.
1. Open your eyes

**I'm having all the Gendry/Arya feels at the moment. I love them - platonically and romantically, they're just wonderful companions. So I found some prompts and have been a flurry of ficlets.**

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They'd sent for him on the third day. Rickon had barged in on him, Shaggydog at his heels and hadn't muttered a single word. He hadn't had to. One sharp jerk of the head and Gendry was following him out of the smith like the flames were chasing him.

Maester Tarly had looked far too relieved when they'd gotten there. "You came quickly. Good."

It took everything in him to keep his feet. "What's happened? Is she – she's not –"

"She's still breathing," said the Maester and suddenly Gendry could too. "But she isn't showing any signs of waking. It's been three days. If she doesn't wake soon…"

Gendry had heard of people falling into what they called an 'eternal sleep'. Breathing, hearts beating, even muttering in their sleep like one does when they're in the throes of their dreams – but never waking. Their families watched and many were slowly driven to mad and desperate measures.

"But she _will_ ," he'd insisted and it sounded like a plea. "She's a Stark. Look at Bran – he should have died and her injuries weren't nearly –"

"Please, Gendry." Jon's rasp came from behind him and Gendry turned to see him and Sansa staring at him with sorrowful eyes. "We've all tried, and all we had to show for it were a few hitched breaths. We need her to wake up."

 _We cannot lose another wolf from the pack._

Gendry nodded and swallowed what felt like a lead ball and Tarly pushed open the door to her chambers.

He stepped through.

She could be still, so still sometimes – unnaturally so, thanks to her water dancing. But there was a wrongness to it now, oppressive and dark and it belonged nowhere near that fierce girl of such fire and life.

He could barely raise his eyes to look at her until he took the vacant seat beside her bed. He took her hand and not for the first time he marvelled at how tiny it was. He'd seen her strength and what she could do, but no one would ever think it looking at her hands. _A lady's hands_ , he'd told her once and she'd laughed and looked sad. Her lashes looked ink black against her cheeks with how pale she was. He could see a web of pale blue veins, carrying her blood and keeping her alive.

But she was _too_ small and _too_ pale and everything was just _wrong._

"Arya," he croaked. "Arya, _please_."

His hand stroked her cheek. "You're scaring your family. Not me though – I now you're just being stubborn – but you have to wake up now."

His hand rested on her chest below her neck, feeling it rise and fall.

"It's not like you've got any right to be lazy, you spoiled little noble. You're not the one hammering away in a forge day and night. Or trying to get better at your learning at the same time, _and_ fitting in some practice with a bloody great big warhammer. It should be _me_ lying there resting up in a lovely featherbed. I wish it were me."

He remembered watching her sleep many times before today. When she was a dirty little orphan boy and men he didn't trust slept too close. When he knew she was a girl and stared at her face and thought he was the stupidest boy in Westeros for not noticing it before. When they'd been stuck in Harrenhall and he'd seen her properly scared for the first time and charged himself with watching over her. When the Brotherhood had taken them and she wouldn't let them take her away from him.

Those nights she had moved, twisted, shifted in her sleep. She snored – she'd never admit it but she did - and now she was still and silent and he would have given anything from a twitch of the fingers or even a sigh.

He pushed a little on her chest. "Come on, now. You're stronger than this – _better_ than this. Stay asleep much longer and no man will believe you're the fierce she-wolf of the North – bested by a little tap on the head."

He remembered once, the squire of some visiting lord or other had claimed she was all talk – a girl playing dress up and trying to run with the boys. That was, until she'd beaten him bloody and he'd retreated from the practice yard trying to hide his tears. Bronn the Sellsword had come to him after, swearing he could see the smithy's grin all the way from the ramparts.

Gendry moved and sat on the edge of the bed and gripped her shoulders.

"You have to wake up." He gave her the gentlest of shakes. "They're going mad, do you understand me? They can't stand it. They can't eat. They can't sleep. All because _m'lady high_ is too selfish to wake up. There's things that need doing and I can't be up here waiting until you're good and ready to open your eyes but I can't fucking _leave here_ until you do –"

His head dropped to her chest and his energy left him. Not that he'd had much anyway after not sleeping since Nymeria had dragged Arya through the gates of Winterfell with her head broken and bleeding.

She was still breathing, he had to remind himself, and the rhythm of her breaths was almost soothing. Almost.

" _Arry_ ," Gendry choked on a broken sob. "Open your eyes, Arry. _Please_. Please, please, please, _please_ …"

He said it like a prayer, mumbled it like she used to mumble her list, until he fell asleep, bent over her chest and his legs limp against the floor.


	2. Midnight

**This one is based of the prompt "Midnight". Set in the not-too-distant future where both Arya and Gendry are at Winterfell preparing for the War. Enjoy, read, review.**

She'd spent so long in the dark. She had spent years travelling, her identity hidden under her dirty boy's clothes and shorn off hair, and long, lonely, cold nights spent exposed under the stars. The House of Black and White was lit only by candle and even then, they were used sparingly. And then the justice those Faceless Men had taught her to exact had plunged her into a different darkness – one she had never known, permanent with no light to guide her out. No family. No companions. Only nothing. Only no one.

She had spent _so_ long in the dark.

And now it was the Long Winter and the nights were near endless and she hated it so much more than she thought she would.

Her room was never cold. A good fire in the hearth chased away the shadows. Yet sleep wouldn't find her as she lay there and watched the moon climb to its highest peak.

 _Midnight_.

She sighed and threw the heavy furs off her. Any chance for sleep was gone – not that she did much of that anymore. She climbed back into her breeches – dirty ones from the day before – and tucked her sleeping shirt all haphazard and loose inside.

Nymeria watched lazily where she was curled by the fire. Arya watched the dancing flame, the logs crackling and popping and the occasional puff of white ash drifting onto the flag stones like snow. And she wondered – she wondered if _he_ would still be stoking the fires at midnight, too.

She huffed again and strapped Needle to her waist and left her feet bare. Nymeria grumbled and took to her feet and plodded to her side. Arya scratched her ears.

"You don't have to come, lazy girl. I'm only going to the forge."

If it were possible, Nymeria looked delighted and retreated back into the room, leaping on Arya's bed now that she had it all to herself and curling herself up to sleep.

"I should be disgusted that he's won you over so quickly." Arya shook her head and slipped out the door.

It wasn't far to Winterfell's forges from her chambers. Bran the Builder had preferred them close-by and so hadn't set them far from the family halls. He had, in fact, place them inside Winterfell itself. A respectable smithy had been built in the main courtyard. But when one walked through the great doors and walked to the back of the main forge, they were taken into a vast place. There were different rooms for different fires for different temperatures for all manner of different metals.

She still smiled when she remembered Gendry's face after Jon had showed it to him and proclaimed, 'It's all yours."

He'd barely left it since. He even slept there, gently refusing Sansa's offer of chambers in the castle. _"I'll have plenty to be getting on with, Lady Stark,"_ he'd said.

And he'd been right. Even now as she approached his forge with the doors thrown open she aw the fires were burning and she heard the sharp sting of steel being beaten.

She watched him. He was surprisingly deft for a man his size. He held a tiny hammer and gently tapped an obsidian arrowhead into shape. Even from her spot by the doorway she could see the fire reflect of its mercilessly sharp edges. It was magnificent, like everything he crafted.

"Can't you sleep?" His voice was gruff and tired.

"No. Neither can you."

He put his hammer down and added the arrowhead to the pile. "No."

She padded over, silent as Nymeria, and hopped up on his workbench. She saw his eyes flit down and an amused twinkle sparked behind them.

"Where are your shoes?"

"I didn't need them. I was only coming to see you."

His face softened as it always did when she said things like that, and said sweetly, "Highborns. Touched in the head, the whole lot of you."

She punched his shoulder and he dutifully cursed her.

"Watch it, _Waters_ ," she smirked. "There are some who would argue that you're highborn, yourself."

He frowned and nudged her with his massive shoulder which really didn't feel like a nudge at all. "Only if they haven't met me."

She caught his hands and traced the rough callouses. For a long time now, she hadn't easily trusted those with soft hands – hands that got others to do their dirty work for them. Sansa was the only exception, and that's because Arya was the one keeping her lady's hands so soft. Gendry's hands had always been rough – had always been honest. Even when lies would have served him better.

"You can't go traipsing back in the snow with bare feet. Your toes will drop off."

" _Such_ a southerner."

He huffed a breath that might have been a laugh as he set about putting out the fires for the night – or what was left on it as dawn would soon be chasing the horizon. She knew that it was always an early start for a blacksmith.

"Then I'll just have to stay here," she said. "You know, for my toes."

And Gendry gave her that soft funny look again and smiled until she could see dimples. "As m'lady commands. For your toes."


	3. Street of Steel

**Ned lives AU. The first part of an AU that came to mind where Ned lives, has the sense to get himself and his family out of King's Landing, and changes a couple of things along the way. No Ned in this one, but his rather errant little wolf is on an adventure...**

 _Quiet as a shadow._

She'd gotten close enough that she could see a fluttering heartbeat beneath its plump little breast. A breeze breathed by and ruffled the slate grey feathers. Its little head was twisting and turning like it knew she was there – it just couldn't see her.

 _Quick like a snake._

She was poised, stick in hand, to dart forward and slay her enemy. Just one step further. One tiny, little step more.

One step too far.

That feathery head twisted round impossibly far and two googly eyes met hers. She leapt forward with a great cry, as far as her small limbs would take her, but her foe was quicker, and was in the air before she had landed on the ground with a heavy thump.

'Stupid pigeon,' she muttered into the dirt.

She pushed herself up with her hands and sat where she had landed. At home, there would already have been half a dozen hands scrambling for her and brushing the snow from her clothes before turning her in to the Septa. But here, no one spared a second look at a skinny child sitting with their backside in the dirt.

Although she wasn't entirely sure where _here_ even was.

She'd seen far more of King's Landing than even her lenient father would forgive, what with Syrio – her beloved dancing teacher – encouraging her to chase cats and pigeons all across the citadel. She would swear to the Old Gods that she had had crept through most of the twists and turns around the Red Keep by now. She'd darted around the streets frequented by the lords and ladies of King's Landing when they weren't trying to curry favour with King Robert, but the street she'd led herself to now didn't look like any place she'd ever seen before.

The streets were dirtier, the houses and inns smaller and shabbier. Windows were clouded with dirt, and the fine lace trimmings or sturdy plain cloth that people wore closer to the Red Keep were nowhere to be found here. Worn leather, thin cloth, bare feet.

Arya clambered to her feet. It even smelled different down here. It still had that dry heat that she had found and hated everywhere in King's Landing, but underneath it was a bitterness. There was no perfume down here to mask the unpleasantness of city odours, but Arya straightened her spine all the same. She wasn't a pampered soft girl like Sansa who would get squeamish at a few bad smells.

She let the crowds push her along what she soon figured to be a market street. Jerkins and tunics hung draped from stalls and the sellers swatted at patrons who drew grubby fingers across them. Shiny baubles were offered to coarse haired ladies. A little further on and she saw fruit laid in great piles in baskets and boxes. They were starting to turn brown in the afternoon heat. Colourful mounds of spices were attacked with the wetted tips of fingers – _'Just a taste, or else how am I supped to be knowin' it's what you say it is'_ – and they pricked the air with strange smells that made her want to sneeze.

That was nothing however, compared to the meat market. She stumbled round the corner rubbing her nose only to choke and gag on the thick, cloying smell of warm and raw, spoiling meat. She coughed and the sharp sting of vomit rose in her throat. She shoved her dirty sweat-drenched collar over her nose, but it may well a been a handful of dung for all the good it did.

As quick on her feet as if she were chasing pigeons, she dashed through the meat market, knocking against legs, bumping full baskets and weaving between the throngs of people that lined the streets. Through broken sandals and dirty feet she glimpsed the opening of another street and hurried down it, hand clamped over her nose until her breath burned in her lungs.

"Seven hells!" she gasped, drawing in a desperate breath. " _Ugh!_ "

A clang sounded behind her, followed by a deep chuckle. Arya whipped her head around to see a large – a very large – dark haired boy smirking down at an anvil, hammer in hand.

"What are you laughing at?" She demanded, face set into the fiercest scowl she could manage.

He didn't even turn to face her only lifted his hammer again and readjusted something she couldn't see on the anvil. "Not from around here, are you?"

The clangs started again as the boy struck with his hammer, an odd rhythm starting up.

"I am too!" She yelled over the hammering.

He stopped and turned round clumsily ( _'Lumbering idiot',_ she thought, snidely), and looked at her with a crinkle in his brow. "From here?"

"That's what I said, stupid."

" _Stupid_?"

"Yes, stupid. You can't tell where I'm from just by looking at me."

Again, he laughed. His hammer swung loosely at his side and his massive shoulders shook with the force of his mirth. "Down here I can."

Arya stepped closer into the shop and her eyes lit up. Swords and shields line the walls. There were baskets full or arrow and spearheads, and rows of shiny, sparkling gauntlets. "Are you an armourer?!" she asked, excitedly.

The boy looked at her bewildered, his eyes flicking between all the wares on display. "Yeah. Surprisingly."

She scowled again.

"What are you doing down here anyway? Shouldn't you be running around with the other boys a little closer to the Keep?"

For a second Arya had it in her to be offended. But then she remembered the dirt smeared all over her, and her fine hair bound behind her neck and tucked down into her shirt, and she had it in her to be secretly pleased that he thought her a boy so easily.

"Those other boys are boring," she said, and smiled a little as he turned back to his work. She followed him this time, and peered over his arm to see a great sheet of metal being beaten into what she thought was a breastplate. "Whose that for?"

"Not you," he said, and nudged her out of the way.

"Your very rude."

That made him smile again. "And you're not? Calling people stupid is a courtesy where you're from, is it?"

She nudged him back – a lot harder than he had done to her as she figured his sheer size made it a fair thing to do. "It could be, for all you know."

The boy huffed and propped his hands against the anvil. Shook his head, too. "Alright then. It's a pleasure to meet you, stupid." He bowed at her, mockingly. "I'm Gendry. Who might stupid be?"

Arya cackled, thrilled at this strange, grumpy armourer's boy. No one ever spoke to her like this at home. Bran was too nice and Rickon too small and Robb was too busy trying to be a little lord to tease his little sister properly.

"I – uhm, I'm 'Arry," she stumbled over the words. "'Arry St- uhm –"

"'Arry Stum? Somehow I don't think that's a real name."

A spike of fear gripped her, brief as it was, that this boy could find out her name and take her back to her father and then she would be in more trouble than ever. But she was Arya Stark, and didn't have it in her to be scared for long.

"Well it is!"

His look was gentler this time, as he turned to look at her fully. His smile was sweeter and she noticed his eyes for the first time – bright blue set against a tan face and black hair. "Hey now. Your last name doesn't matter to me none. I don't even have one if that makes you feel any better."

That caught her attention. "You mean – you're a bastard?"

It was as the difference between night and day. One moment his expression was pleasant and welcoming, the next a dark look came into his eyes and he turned away from her sharply.

"Well sorry if that's not good enough for you," he muttered. "But I reckon if you're so ashamed of your own last name, you shouldn't be looking down on us without."

"I'm not ashamed!" she shouted, but he didn't even acknowledge he'd heard hear. She gripped the back of his thick leather apron and tried to tug him around to face her – but it was no good. He was too heavy and too stubborn for her. _Like a bull_ , she thought.

"And-" _tug_ -"that's not-" _tug_ -"what I meant at all! I don't care if you're a bastard."

He scoffed, but he turned a little bit all the same. "Oh really."

"Yes! My brother J-Jonah – he's a bastard too. And he's by best brother."

But to her dismay this didn't seem to improve Gendry's mood at all. "How can he be your brother and a bastard?"

"I call him my brother. But my sister doesn't. And my mother hates him. But I don't – I love him. Much better than anyone else in the world but Father. In fact, I think – I think all the best men are bastards."

He was quiet for a moment. He'd put the hammer down when she had started rambling and looked at her carefully – but not like he was scrutinising her for traces of a lie, but like he was considering her. At length, she felt the weight of his gaze soften. "Apart from your dad."

Her grin was full and happy. "Apart from father."

He sighed – not unamused – and shook his head again. "Yeah. Yeah, alright."

Arya finally felt brave enough to ask to hold one of the swords on the wall and was about to ask Gendry if she could, when a bellow from the back of the shop interrupted them.

"BOY! Where are you boy?! Hurry up and finish that breastplate! That sorry excuse for a Ser will be by to pick up today now instead of tomorrow, so stop taking you precious time over it! He isn't paying us that much coin."

Gendry rolled his eyes and only barely fought off a grimace. He looked at the little boy, who looked crestfallen for some reason, and gave a sorry shrug. "I have to get back to work. Thanks for the break, I suppose."

He gathered up his hammer again and Arya watched him put the breastplate back into position on the anvil. He'd quite enjoyed meeting this boy – this Gendry – gruff and polite and funny not treating her like a little girl even though he thought she was a boy. So she suppose that's why she said it.

"Can I come by and see you again tomorrow?"

She'd had to shout as he'd started up his hammering again, and this time he didn't stop for her.

"No," he'd said with a laugh.

She'd laughed right back at him. "Alright. I'll be back at the same time then! Bye Gendry!"

She'd already darted off by the time Gendry had turned around. He felt a soft sport of affection bloom in his chest, smothering any irritation.

"See you tomorrow, 'Arry."


	4. Tougher

**This prompt was taken from the lovely GOT community of tumblr. Specifically from notpreparedforthepain.**

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"It's true."

He set his hammer on the anvil. He was only repairing some arrow heads. They could wait for a moment - wait for the slip of a girl who wasn't a girl anymore, and never really was, leaning against the entrance to the forge.

His forge. The Starks had gifted it to him, for as long as he wanted, telling him he always had a home in Winterfell.

"Arry?"

He'd gotten his tongue wrapped around only one _"M'lady"_ since he'd finally stumbled into her ancestral home, and found himself face first in the snow. There could be no pretenses between them now, after everything.

"Everyone wants to appear tougher than they really are. Apart from you."

He crosses his arms before his chest - she still marvels at how he manages it - and gives her that smirk she's remembered countless nights since their days with the Brotherhood. "And how do you figure that?"

"You're bloody massive Gendry," she scoffs and walks further into the forge. "But you slouch even when you walk and somehow manage to bleed into the background."

He shifted. He slouched. He looked at the ground and the tips of her boots as she got close.

Sweet little fingers that were wicked with a blade touched his chin.

"You're always looking down. If you were smart I'd say it was to hide those Baratheon eyes, but we both know better."

"What are you doing, Arry?"

"Why do you do it?"

"Do _what_?"

She smiled. She loved his temper. "Try to make yourself look so meek? And small."

He just looked at her a moment. All grey eyes and pale skin and the beautiful frosts of winter. "Because I'm no one. No one for all these lords and ladies to look at anyway."

One of her hands gripped Needle and the other took his wrist and her eyes, her jaw and lips, all hardened tight and sore.

"You are not No One."

"Not to you."

She shook her head. Gendry thought she looked dazed. She swayed and let go of Needle and brought that other hand to grip the strap of his leather apron.

"Am I No One?" It wasn't breathless. Not the way some ladies might fish for was like she truly didn't know.

He uncrossed his arms and planted his hands firmly around her waist. He grounded her. He centred her.

"You are Arry." She finally looked at him, pleading as much as the She-Wolf of the North could. "You are Arya. You are the skinniest little pain in my arse and the one I would follow anywhere. You are M'Lady, and I am… I am yours."

She let one long breathe out through her nose, eyes clearing from that awful stormy grey and her hold on him became firmer, less desperate.

"You are mine."


	5. I Know Him

**Based off an old Gendrya Week Prompt.**

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Davos had dragged him through the gates, screaming for a Maester.

The old salt dog was usually so calm. He greeted every new raven with a wry smile and a quip and Arya had grown fond of the man her brother Jon had claimed his most trusted advisor. She had never seen him unsettled in the ever darkening days the closer they grew to war with the Night King.

But this, this was something else. His eyes were full of panic. His voice was cracked and desperate, and the hands that clutched at the man's heavy furs where he cradled him on the ground were possessive and shaking.

"Help me! Maester! Someone, HELP HIM!"

Arya had been so disturbed by the sight, that a group of their men had strode forward and lifted the half-frozen man to carry him into the stronghold before she'd even set a foot forward to help.

They'd had to pry Davos' fingers off him to move him.

Arya crept to where the old man still knelt in the snow. She stood side-face, approached like she would a skittish wolf. "Ser – "

He was staring at the door the men had just disappeared through. "He's a good lad. He shouldn't – he shouldn't even be here."

She stood by his side now, steady and calm like he had been for her and her brothers and sister so often before. "Who is he?"

"Just a boy. A bastard boy stolen and abused by the red woman, like so many others."

Arya stamped down her flinch as a flash of black hair and blue eyes being traded like cattle for a bag of gold flit across her memories. A gleeful witch in red, so pleased with her new captive. Jon had told her about the murdered princess Shireen, and Davos couldn't hear her mentioned but let a black mood take him. Everywhere she was, she left behind ghosts.

"Not so like them," she gently leaned on his shoulder. "I thought no one survived her, yet here he is. Unless – is she out there Davos? Is that what happened?"

Davos staggered to his knees and rubbed his eyes viciously. "No," he nearly spat. "No. This – the idiot boy nearly killed himself trying to save your brother."

Her blood was Winter, but Arya felt the ice in her veins. Jon had already left to meet the Dragon Queen before she'd returned to Winterfell, so she'd had no choice but to wait here with Sansa and Bran and wait for news. It had left her frustrated and angry. When they had received a raven about the mission beyond the Wall to capture a wight, Bran had thwarted her attempts to escape and join them twice, before she eventually had admitted defeat. _"Your place is here, Arya Stark,"_ he'd said. _"You must be in Winterfell. At least for a while, yet."_

"What happened?"

"I don't know. I wasn't there. I was waiting at Eastwatch. We found him collapsed outside near death in the Snow. Jon had sent him to get a message to Danaerys Targaryen for aid. They were pinned down beyond the Wall – death was certain if the message didn't get to her in time."

Her breath stilled. "And did it?"

"Yes. Because when Jon told him to run, he didn't stop running. Nearly a full day and night and the stupid boy _didn't. stop._ Covered in frost burn. Nothing but ribbons were left of his feet. He couldn't speak, he could barely breathe and even when he did it sounded painful. He couldn't even open his mouth the eat or drink. He slept for days. It's only the Wildlings at Eastwatch – there's no maester, no medicine to speak of. He just slept and I didn't think he was ever going to wake up until he did. Took a few mouthfuls of broth then went back under again. Then the Wall came down and I had to get us out of there. Now I've made it worse. I think I've killed him. Leaving him there might have been merciful. But I've always been a selfish man."

Arya's head was spinning. "What do you mean the Wall came down? How could the Wall come down?" It was unfathomable. Everything her father had ever told her about the Wall, there was no chance it could have been breached.

"Gods, he has one of her dragons. The Night King. It had those dead blue eyes like the rest of them and breathed ice instead of fire."

I felt like lead in her belly and a vice at her throat. "We have to tell Jon. I'll fetch –"

"No, my lady, let him be." Davos gripped her wrist firmly. "The Night King won't be marching on King's Landing anytime soon, and they'll be heading back before the raven ever reaches them. We have to get ready, _here_."

Reluctantly, Arya nodded. "Alright. You can report to my sister."

Davos was no stranger to the cold, being a seafaring man, but the Great Hall of Winterfell had chilled him in places he'd forgotten existed. Arya had strode in before him, summoned the attention of her sister the Lady Stark, and he'd found himself pushed into a seat before the high table and hot wine pressed into his hand.

"Speak, Ser Davos. What is your news?"

The Lady Stark was a breathtaking creature. Her hair burned like the fire in the hearth and her eyes were as sharp as the frost on the windows. A true lady, he was pleased to know. He'd forgotten they'd ever existed.

"The Wall has come down at Eastwatch."

He'd expected ridicule. An outcry. Some great clamouring of Northern voices, but all that met him was silence – the silence of a room full of people who'd grown up hearing about the great, unbreachable wall.

"Jon and his men were in trouble. Many of them had been killed. The wights were too many. They were going to die up there." Now the lords and ladies started to rumble. "But one of them – a boy, only – managed to get to Eastwatch in time and the Targaryen Queen came with her dragons. Only – the Night King – he killed one. He killed one and I swear my Lady, I saw him riding it to Eastwatch and he had it breath icefire to bring down the wall. The Wall is down. The dead are coming."

That was when the hall erupted. Lord Glover tried to call him a liar. Lady Mormont was calling for a report on Jon's safety, the Manderlys were predicting the doom of the North. But the Starks were silent. Stoic. Calm. Bran from his chair, Sansa from her place at the centre of the table, and Arya behind her to her left.

"Ser Davos." Bran's collected, oddly sweet voice, quietened the hall. "What you say is true." Lord Glover sat heavily back on his bench. "You told my sister that we must prepare for war here, in Winterfell."

"Yes, my Lord."

Bran turned, met his older sister's eye and nodded once.

Sansa stood. "Very well. Lords and Ladies of North," she commanded. "Winter is here. I know your houses have been preparing for the War but now it has come. Send word to ready your armies. Men, women, boys and girls. We are the North, and we are safer together."

"Safer?" Spat Lord Glover. "We are no safer together. Forgive me my lady but not all of us have fine valyrian steel blades to fend off the Walkers. Nor have we seen a speck of that dragonglass our King had left us for!"

Bran settled those wise, too old eyes back on Davos, and they commanded him to speak. "The dragonglass is coming in ships," he blurted. "Great loads of it, my lord. There will be plenty for everyone, you have my word."

"Yes and how is it to be fashioned into weapons. You are asking smiths to fashion weapons quickly out of something they have never even seen before!"

"We have a smith!" Davos snapped back.

Lord Glover stepped back, and Sansa commanded him again. "Your companion?"

"Yes my lady. He's young but he's the best I've ever seen. He learned under Tobho Mott in King's Landing and his master taught him the secrets of valyrian steel. He _can_ make us these weapons my lady but –"

Bran spoke for him. "But you fear for his life. You think he will not recover."

Davos nodded at the floor.

"He will live, Ser Davos."

Something squeezed his heart. "My Lord?"

"Your blacksmith. Gendry. He will live. He has much to do at Winterfell. It is not his time to die." Bran spoke those last words to his dark-haired sister, who's eyes had blown wide, and skin had gone nearly as pale as Sansa's. He turned back to the room. "Gendry will have command of the forges as soon as he recovers. Winterfell with have a Master Blacksmith, again."

Davos was relieved to see that everyone seemed satisfied with Bran's proclamation. He'd worked hard to win over this gruff, suspicious, unforgiving lot, and he didn't want to have to throw all that away defending Gendry until he ran out of breath – or skin to pierce. And he would. He'd let the North turn him into a pincushion a thousand times over to protect that boy.

All, that was, save the Lady Arya, who looked between him and Bran with and angry fire growing behind her eyes and thinning her lips.

"My Lady?" he stepped forward, cautiously. "I am sorry if I have distressed you but-"

She mouthed something, too quietly for him to hear anything, but Sansa's head cracked around like a whip and glared at her sister.

"Arya!"

But she paid her no heed. She spoke again, and this time the entire hall could hear her.

"That. _BASTARD_!" She turned on her heel as the gawping nobles and guardsmen looked on, and stalked from the hall, seething. "That big, stupid, bull-headed bastard! _WHERE IS HE_?!"

A great door slammed behind her and the hall erupted into grumbles and shouts and members of the North's great houses leaping to their feet. Until the Great Lady's voice, like a swirling winter storm, smothered them all.

"Be silent." She only had to wait a few moments until her command was obeyed. "My Lords. My Ladies. We don't have time for arguments and petty words. Winter is here and we must prepare."

* * *

Davos' head was hurting.

His Lady had fed him, warmed him with hot cider and clothed him in fresh, mercifully dry clothes, but after that she had been merciless. He had been closeted inside council chambers for hours. He'd been sent around the Castle fetching this and that person. Carrying this and that order. He'd poured over maps and provisions lists until his eyes couldn't make sense of the scribblings on the paper – as if his lovely, lovely Shireen had never taught him his letters. After one blink too long – one that threatened to stay close and have him make a fool of himself in front of the Starks of Winterfell and their bannermen, Sansa had finally taken pity and told him to find her errant sister. _"I don't know what got into her earlier, Ser Davos. Please find her. I need her."_

And so he would. But first, to the maester.

No one had brought him any report of Gendry. He took it as a good thing, at least. Surely if the boy had succumbed to his wounds they would have told him. But all the same, he felt a deep itching to see that black hair with his own eyes. He'd found a kitchen girl in a corridor he was convinced was near Tarly's chambers and she'd nodded to the floor and pointed to a thick, dark door fastened with iron boltings on his left.

He braced himself. With a hand he told himself wasn't shaking, he pushed the door open.

He'd expected to see Gendry lying there, still and unmoving and packed down with furs with a roaring fire in the heart. And he was. But he hadn't anticipated seeing the uncomfortable wooden chair by his bedside, that he'd fully intended sleeping in, already occupied. By the younger Lady of House Stark, of all people.

She paid him no mind. Her hand didn't even go to the hilt of Needle. She simply sat, staring at the rise and fall of Gendry's chest, her hands pressed between her thighs and an odd look on her face.

"Forgive me my la-"

"I know him."

Davos was tired. His heart, body and his mind. So he closed the door, waited for the latch to click and stepped forward until he could take seat at Gendry's feet. The lad didn't so much as twitch as the bed dipped under his weight.

"Arya?"

A wan smile was all he got for dropping his courtesies. "I did. Though it seems so long ago now."

Davos kept his tone gentle. "He's never mentioned you."

"He was never much one for words. Not with others, anyway."

"No. No, he's nearly as good at silent brooding as your Kingly brother is."

Arya snorted. Davos considered it a victory.

"What did the maester have to say?"

"His feet have been cleaned and bound. He had water in his lungs, from breathing in the ice. That's why he sounds like that," she referred to the horrid rattling coming from Gendry that Davos had wholeheartedly been trying to ignore.

"But it will clear. He'll live?"

Arya raised a little brow at him. "You doubt my wise little brother, Ser?"

But Davos matched her. "Being told something and seeing it with your own eyes are two very different things, as you well know."

She cocked her head and granted him another victory. "Yes, Davos, he'll live. He needs to rest and keep warm, but he'll live. Sam promised me."

Davos didn't want to think about what would befall sweet Samwell Tarly if he turned out to be wrong. He rested a hand on Gendry's foot underneath the furs. Solid. Thick with bandages. Healing.

"How did you know him, my lady?"

And suddenly, a look softer than any he had seen on the lady's face since they'd met blossomed over those Northern features.

"We were smuggled out of King's Landing together," she said. "When father was – when Joffrey murdered my father," she licked her lips, "Yoren refused to let me look. Pressed his hands to my ears and my face against his chest. He cut off all my hair and told me I was a boy. 'Arry the orphan from Flea Bottom – being sent to the wall with all the other gutter rats. Only Gendry was there, too."

Davos watched her eyes trace his features, the line of his body. He watched as she leaned forward a little to study him even more closely.

"There was a fat boy called Hot Pie. And Lommy. They tried to take Needle from me. They pushed me on the ground and threatened to kill me. I didn't know it at the time but they were harmless. Gendry heard them and scared them off. Told them he'd make them sing like steel," she nearly smiled. "Only, then I grabbed Hot Pie's wrist and told him I liked killing fat boys. Gendry and I – we barely left each other's side after that."

And then she spoke, more than he had ever hear her talk before. She told him about their long march on the King's Road. Of the Gold Cloaks looking Gendry – she still didn't know why – and Gendry's discovery of her secret – and that he never told a soul. Then she told him of Yoren's death and being taken to Harrenhal.

"After everywhere I've been, I've never been anywhere quite like that place. They stuck us in pens at first - like cattle. They still thought I was a boy and the Mountain's men would pick a few girls every night and we'd have to listen to them get raped and beaten. I made Gendry promise that he'd never let them take me."

Her fingertips reached out, stroked the back of his hand. "He was nearly killed there. They were looking for the Brotherhood Without Banners, and were torturing prisoners for information. One day, they picked him. They put a rat in a bucket, strapped it to the chest, and when they didn't get the answers they wanted they put a torch to the end of the bucket, so there was only one way for the rat to go."

Davos gripped Gendry's foot tighter.

"Gendry didn't have their answers, obviously. So they lit the torch and put it to the bucket – only that's when Tywin Lannister arrived. I never thought in my life I'd be relieved at the sight of a Lannister. But he set us free from the pens and put us to work. Gendry was in the forge of course, and I was his cup bearer.

Then she told him about Jaqen H'ghar and their escape from Harrenhal and how their eyes turned to Riverrun. But then the Brotherhood had captured them. A minor inconvenience at first, but then they'd also caught the Hound and he'd given her away. They'd tried to separate her and Gendry a bit more after that, but neither of them would have it. She told him about the Hound's trial and how Gendry had been the one to fight her back, away from a Hound backed into a corner and baying for blood.

"They finally agreed to take us to Riverrun after a while. I was excited, I told Gendry he could come and smith for Robb and he'd be my family – because he was my pack. For so long, he was the only pack I had left."

Her small palm rested on Gendry's chest. She let it move with the rhythm of his breaths, watched it as if in a trance.

"I'm sure he was grateful for your kindness, my lady."

Her laugh was just a little bit broken. "He refused. He wouldn't come. He told me he could never be my family, because I'd always be _m'lady_. Bloody stupid, stubborn boy. Look at where he ended up, anyway."

Davos couldn't think of what to say, but he didn't need to.

"All he wanted was a family. He thought the Brotherhood could be his – that's why he wouldn't come with me. Only do you know what they did the very next morning?"

Davos shook his head.

"They sold him. Like livestock. They sold him for two bags of gold and said it was for their fucking stupid god. All because that Red Witch told them so. God's I'll kill her."

At last he found his voice. "She has a high price on her head, Arya."

Finally those grey Stark eyes looked at him. "She murdered the Lady Shireen Baratheon. The sweetest, most beautiful girl in the world. I loved her. So very much. And that woman burned her at the stake. I don't care if she did bring your brother back, she still has crimes to pay for. Jon banished her – told her if she ever returned he'd have her hanged as a murderer."

"I would slit her throat and be done with it. Truly, I thought she'd kill Gendry. I told her as much."

"Aye she wanted to." That got her attention. "You know I was Hand to Stannis, yes?"

Arya nodded.

"Well, when she bought our boy from that brotherhood, she brought him Dragonstone – to Stannis. They wanted him for his King's blood you see – for her dark magic. I don't know everything that happened but I know he was bled and she used that blood to curse your brother Robb, Joffrey Lannister – even Stannis' own brother, Renly. And before Stannis was to go to the siege of King's Landing, they wanted to burn the boy at the stake – a great sacrifice for a great reward, she said. Well, I wasn't going to stand back and watched her murder another innocent."

"What did you do?"

"One of the stupidest things I've ever done. I freed him and helped him escape. Put him on a rowboat and told him to get back to Flea Bottom. Hide in plain sight and all that."

She barked a surprised little laugh. "After all of that, he ended u back in King's Landing?"

"Aye. And he was safe. Until I came back to get him and dragged him back into this mess."

"Come now Davos, if you know him at all you know there's no forcing him to do anything. Stubborn oaf."

Davos smiled. "No, I suppose not."

They were silent then, listening to the crackle of the fire, and those raspy breaths Gendry was dragging through his lungs. The shadows were flickering across her face and Davos watched as her eyes drooped and a little more of her weight slumped against Gendry's chest. He was loathe to interrupt her. She'd almost started to look peaceful again. But, however unconventional, he _was_ a Ser, now. A Ser with a seemingly limitless fondness for Starks.

"I can watch over him, my lady. I'll send for you if he wakes."

"She looked at him with heavy eyes, and he already knew her answer.

"No Davos. I'm not leaving. Find your bed, and make my excuses to my sister if you must. But I'm staying here." And as if to illustrate, she leaned back as far as the wooden chair would let her, and propped her now bootless feet upon Gendry's bed. She closed her eyes and Davos turned for the door.

"And Ser?" She spoke just as he was about to shut it behind him.

"Yes, my lady."

"What did you mean by his King's Blood?"

"That's a story you should hear from his own lips, my lady. When he wakes."

Her feet tucked a little under the heavy weight of his body. Davos wasn't even sure if she was aware of doing it. As he closed the door, he heard her murmur through the wood.

"Soon, then."


	6. Street of Steel II

**Part II of a Ned Lives AU. Against his honour, Ned has the savvy to get his family out of King's Landing. But his youngest is missing and he has the opportunity to save another life.**

Lord Eddard Stark couldn't remember the last time he'd had to tread so carefully.

It wasn't the way in the North. For certain, the Lords and men up there could be as hungry for power, renown, gold and glory as much as any southern courtling, but there was a bluntness about those men that was missing all the way here in King's Landing. Back in his beloved North, men were far more honest about their true intentions, and for the most part accepted the consequences of their actions were they foolish enough to get caught.

They did not wrap themselves in the politics of court and try to ensnare you in the same net that was trapping them.

It itched under his skin having to do things this way. His honour was his pride. So much so that his whole house was now known for its honesty and steadfastness – the truest House in Westeros.

And yet here he was, sneaking around, keeping silent and playing what the lovely Queen liked to call the Game of Thrones.

Only, he didn't want any throne. He didn't even want the hand's sigil that was pinned to his chest. No, instead, he was trying to move everyone he held dear away from it as quickly and as quietly as he could.

For days he'd been secretly filing away some of the choicest selections of his daughters' wardrobes – not everything mind, lest the maids get suspicious. No, most things would have to be left behind. He hadn't even sent any ravens back to Winterfell. But now the time was upon them. After his encounter with Cersei Lannister today, he knew. If they stayed in King's Landing, whether Cersei believed his word or not, they would not survive the week. He'd ordered two of his men to take Sansa to room he'd bought for safekeeping, just outside the city walls. But he'd offered no explanation to his sweet eldest girl. He'd had to be forceful, commanded her to obey her guards' every order, and she'd nodded with shadows behind her eyes and a fear in them he had never seen before. He would have to deal with that another day – one that didn't dawn in King's Landing.

Perhaps he didn't give her as much credit as he gave Arya. His wild little wolf who had gone missing. His first instinct had been to panic – but the moment of madness had passed and he knew she hadn't been taken. She would have raised a fuss that could be heard half way to the Wall if they'd tried. No, a visit to Syrio had alleviated any doubts he'd had.

"A girl is a shadow. A man need only check the shadows if he seeks a girl."

She'd told him about her dancing master tasking her with chasing down skittish cats and flighty pigeons. So he'd turned his back on the Braavosi, resigning himself to burning precious hours of the afternoon with a few men, seeking her out in all the alleys and streets in King's landing until they found her, when Syrio had spoken again.

"A girl has lately favoured the shadows of an armoury. A girl forgets that a man can smell metal and flame."

And so, for the second time since he'd come to this cursed citadel, he'd headed to the Street of Steel.

Strange that his little one would bring him here, the street where he'd followed Jon Arryn's trail and found one of Robert's bastards at the end of it. A strong lad of fourteen – the image of Baratheon blood labouring away with a smithing hammer and full of the same spark of fire that fed the rest of his House.

A House he didn't even know about. Ned would pray for that boy every night in the Godswood.

Jory was with him again as they picked their was on horseback along the Street of Steel. It was quieter now that evening was coming, but a few stubborn merchants were continuing to do business with the last patrons of the day.

It was only after a few minutes riding that they'd heard the commotion.

"I am not a thief!"

Ned's heart stuttered in his chest as the voice of his youngest girl rose above the quiet of the street. He moved quickly but quietly until they could spy her standing in front of someone's shop, a small scabbard clutched to her chest and two Gold Cloaks looming over her.

Jory's hand clamped down over the crook of his elbow. _Wait and watch,_ that grip said. If the City's Guard saw him down here, it would raise too much suspicion.

"Now listen here boy," he heard them say. Sure enough, a quick glance at his daughter saw her dirtied and in breeches, with all her lovely long hair tucked away. "A gutter rat like you couldn't afford a scabbard like that. The King doesn't look kindly on stealing. That'll be your hand, boy!"

They'd made to grab her be she darted back out of their reach.

"I told you, I didn't steal it!" She shouted more panicked now. The Gold Cloaks made tried to catch her again and Ned was nearly off his horse and striding forward before he heard a much louder voice join the fray.

"No! Wait – _wait_! What are you doing?! Leave him alone!"

The guards paused. "You're the apprentice here, boy?"

"I am." The boy manoeuvred Arya behind him as he answered the guard, putting a very physical barrier between them and her, and Ned was struck dumb. Of all the blacksmiths, of all the armourers and of all the shops lining this vast street, she'd found, and apparently befriended, the one boy who may someday have as much to fear from those gilded guards as she did, should their true identities be discovered.

"We caught him thieving one of your scabbards. Hand it back to him boy and come with us – quietly mind! And we may be lenient. You may just lose your fingers."

"I'm not going anywhere -!"

" _'Arry!_ " Gendry hissed. "Sers, he's stole nothin' from me. That scabbard's a gift. He's been helping me here in the shop whenever Master Mott's been called away. I don't have coin to give him, so the scabbard's payment for his work."

The guards studied him and Arya, who was mercifully staying quiet and letting herself be tucked behind Gendry's massive frame.

"I promise you Sers, the boy's done nothin'." Gendry bowed his head slightly and, although not quite looking at the floor, kept his eyes lowered the same way he had when Eddard had spoken to him. Ned nearly laughed when he realised what it meant – that they boy was tolerating the presence of these men and silently praying for them to go away and leave him in peace.

It seemed the Gods were listening today, too. With a scoff at Arya and another glance at Gendry, they'd turned on their heels and strode away out of sight.

Ned waited a moment before leading his horse away from their hiding spot and approaching Mott's shop. Arya's back was to him as Gendry ruffled her hair and pushed her shoulder until she ducked under his arm and wandered further into the shop. It was only after he glanced back before turning to go after her, that he caught Ned and Jory walking towards him, horses in tow.

"M'lord Hand," he said, surprised but frowning, and quickly bowed his head. "What are you doing here so late – I mean -!" he blushed and stumbled over his words. "I'm sorry m'lord I didn't mean to speak so brashly. I meant to say Master Mott hasn't returned yet and I don't know what I can do for you at this hour –"

Arya chose that moment to return to Gendry's side. He didn't notice her of course, blushing furiously at the floor as he was, but Arya's eyes lit up and she darted forward towards him –

\- or at least she tried too until a meaty hand clamped down on her shoulder and dragged her back.

"What do you think you're doing?" Gendry hissed at her. "That's the Lord Hand, 'Arry. Mind your place!"

Arya's grin couldn't have been wider if she'd tried. "Oh really?"

Ned looked between them. "'Arry?"

"Yes m'lord," Gendry said and pulled Arya behind him again. "He's just a boy, m'lord, that's taken to comin' round here to watch me work the past few weeks – when Master Mott isn't here. Got some right cheek on him too," and he tugged Arya's hair, "but he doesn't mean no harm. Please m'lord, forgive him. He's just a lad. Hasn't been taught his courtesies to know any better, I'd wager."

Jory had been forced to hide his face in the mane of his horse so they couldn't see him laughing. But Ned couldn't hold back a small, deep chuckle and shook his head at the ratty 'boy' still grinning from behind Gendry's legs.

"My Lord Hand! To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit today?" Master Mott was walking towards them, a basket full of food in one hand and a crease marring his brow. He spied Gendry and Arya next. "Gendry! What's going on here, lad?"

"Master Mott!" Gendry near yelped. "I, um, this- the Lord Hand –"

Ned decided to spare him. "There's nothing to worry about, Master Mott. Your lad Gendry here very kindly got my daughter out of a misunderstanding with the City Guard. He's a good one, your apprentice."

This did nothing to ease Mott's expression and one look at Gendry and he looked much the same. "Your daughter, m'lord?"

Ned stifled a sigh. "Come here, Arya. I've been looking for you since daybreak."

Sheepishly, Arya trudged forward towards her father. When she was close enough he tugged her forward and embraced her tightly, thanking the old Gods for sending he back to him hale.

"I'm sorry, father," she mumbled from his shirt. "I didn't mean to make you worry."

He released her with a pat on her hand and she took his hand and stood at his side. The beaming smile of only moments ago was replaced by something much shyer and sorrier as she looked between him and the blacksmith boy.

Gendry had gone white, his eyes wide before a fierce blush claimed his neck and face. Whether it was anger or embarrassment or both Ned couldn't even guess. The boy brought his soot covered hands up to his hair and gripped tightly. " _Shit._ "

"Gendry!" Mott cuffed him.

"I'm sorry m'lord! I didn't know. I should never have – I didn't mean to put hands on her – or speak to her in such a way. I though she was just a boy – I mean, not that she looks like a boy – well she does but –" He only stopped when Ned raised a hand to silence him. " _Seven hells_ ", he whimpered and looked at the floor again, eyes closed and mortified.

"It's alright lad," Ned laid a hand on his shoulder before he could start stammering again or Mott could raise a hand again. "I'm well aware of my daughter's taste for mischief. You are not to blame." He fixed Arya was a heavy glare and she had the decency to look very sorry indeed. "I saw you defend her again the City Guards and I am grateful."

Mott seemed to collect himself. "And I'm sorry for this whole mess, my Lord. The boy should know his place, regardless," and Gendry received an equally as withering glare and soon the two children were near squirming. "Is there anything we can do to atone for this…oversight?"

"That's not necessary, Master Mott, I assure you. I only came to collect my daughter once I learned of her whereabouts." Ned studied the man before him – a good and trustworthy man he knew him to be. There were no tales of disgruntled customers, or even brawls outside his shop. When he had asked around the Street of Steel on his first visit, he'd heard nothing but the highest praise and respect for the most skilled Blacksmith in King's Landing and his apprentice.

And then of course, there were his own suspicions. Mott was the best, and he'd had more than one royal commission. Ned knew he was a clever man – he had to be for his business to be so successful – and he would have been very surprised indeed if the man before him hadn't taken one look at the King and then returned to his apprentice without coming the same conclusion as Jon Arryn had. Ned chose his next words carefully, and never took his eyes from the Master.

"I return with my family to Winterfell, Master Mott. I will no longer be required to serve the throne."

He wanted to watch the man process the words, but Arya was jumping and tugging on his hand, ecstatic. "Oh really, Father! Are we really? I get to go home to Bran like I promised! And Rickon and Robb and Mother and Maester Luwin?" She threw her arms around his waist and hugged him impossibly hard. "Oh thank you, father. When are we leaving? Can we go now?"

Still not looking at her, eyes fixed firmly on Mott, he answered. "Yes my sweetling. We go tonight. The Queen's family will, I'm sure, be more than capable to finishing Robert's affairs."

There it was. A sharpness behind Mott's ever watchful eyes. He watched as they flicked towards Gendry, and back to him and he saw real fear there and it wasn't for himself.

It was then, that Ned made a decision.

"As it happens, there might be something you could do for me."

"Name it my Lord," and Mott's voice wasn't as strong as it had been before.

"Winterfell always needs skilled hands at the forge, and our Blacksmith is counting more years than he's willing to admit. I wonder if you'd be willing to part with your apprentice?"

Arya gasped, "Gendry!" and Mott's stared back at him, and wore the face of a man thinking hard and quickly. Ned took the opportunity to turn to Gendry, who had snapped his eyes off the floor and let them bore into Ned's own.

"I understand this is sudden, lad. But we would welcome a young man of your talents in Winterfell. It's a different life up there than King's landing but –"

"King's Landing is my home." Gendry had spoken with the same tone he'd used when he'd informed Ned that his bull helmet wasn't for sale. "I belong here with Master Mott."

But Ned pressed him. He wasn't sure why he felt it was so important to get this bastard of Robert's away from the citadel, but as he stood there he knew he had to convince him. He knew Gendry had to be part of their leaving party – half of which was already on its way away from the Keep.

"You can finish your apprenticeship with Mikken –"

"I mean no disrespect m'lord, but I can finish it here. Master Mott can't do it all on his own, and he's been good to me. Thank you," he sounded anything but grateful, "but I'm staying here."

For as long as he lived Ned didn't think he would ever forget the look that crossed Mott's face when Gendry spoke those words – fierce pride and the sharpness of sorrow all at once. But it was gone all too quickly before he steeled himself and spoke with the steel of his armour.

"No you aren't, boy."

Gendry stumbled, stuttered, stared at his Master. "My – master –"

"Be quiet! I've said you'll go and you'll go!"

Arya piped up from Ned's side. "Leave him alone!" she glared at Mott. "You're not at all like Gendry said you'd be – you're horrible and selfish and stupid!"

"Arya!" Jory hissed.

"No! Gendry works hard all the time and doesn't even stop when he's talking to me and all the things he makes are really good! If you want rid of him so much, you don't deserve him. Come to Winterfell Gendry," she turned to her friend. "Mikken's much nicer than him."

Gendry seemed not to have heard her, and his voice was low. "Master I don't understand –"

"I can't be affording to keep you. You don't have to go with Lord Stark but you're not staying here regardless. Gather your things and be away with you!"

The look between them spoke volumes; Mott hard and unforgiving, forcing the boy away and Gendry, confused, hurt and angry – a fourteen year old boy being forced out of the only home he had ever known.

"Gendry," Ned spoke softly. "There's no more time. You have to decide, now."

After a long, tense moment, Gendry couldn't look at Mott anymore and broke his gaze away to look at the ground. He huffed – a broken breath that he tried to hide and mumbled, "There's no choice to to be had. I'll get my things. Thank you, m'lord."

Arya thrust herself out from under Jory's grip, and escaped his grasping hands. "I'll help you, Gendry!" She darted after the hulking boy.

Mott stared after him.

"You did the right thing." Ned placed a firm hand on the Master Armourer's shoulder.

Mott nodded slowly. "I know that."

"And one day he will, too."

"No."

Ned dropped his hand as Mott turned on him, eyes blazing and worried. "No, m'lord hand – he mustn't. He mustn't ever know. You don't understand – he's so like – Stark, please –"

"Mott?"

"Promise me you won't tell him. Promise me. Him knowing would only put him in danger. Keep him safe. He's a good lad." Mott turned as Gendry emerged from the back of his shop, two travel sacks slung over his back and the silvery bull's helm clutched in one hand. Arya trotted determinedly alongside him.

"Is that everything?" Ned asked. Gendry nodded at the floor. "Then let's go. It's past time to be off."

Ned took Arya in hand and put her on his horse, climbing up behind her. The relief at having his youngest in his arms was almost too much. He watched as Jory led his by the reins, waiting for Gendry. The boy spared Mott a look and a nod, and dutifully made his way to the Winterfell guard, and as a procession, they left Mott's shop and prepared to leave King's Landing for good.

"Gendry! GENDRY!"

Ned wasn't sure if he wanted to smile or sigh. Behind them, Mott trotted to catch up, his eyes fixed on his young apprentice. He was happy thought. He knew the Armourer cared for him, and Gendry deserved a proper farewell.

"Here lad," he breathed as he caught them, and handed Gendry the basket brimming with bread, fruits, cheese and meats. It'll see you through a good bit of your travels – though not as long as it should, given the size of you."

Gendry only nodded and grasped the basket as it was pressed into his hands. Jory stepped forward and took it from him.

"You obey the Lord Hand, do you hear me. He's a good man, and honest man. His whole house is. The Stark's will do right by you – you make sure you work hard for them, and be loyal to them. Do you hear me?"

"I hear you, master Mott," Gendry mumbled.

Mott had had enough of Gendry looking at the ground, and grabbed his chin and thrust his head up. Blue eyes met brown and Mott was thrilled to see that spark of stubbornness and anger, lit like his own forge behind those King's eyes.

Mott pulled Gendry flush to him and wrapped his own strong arms around the young boy's massive frame. For a second, his arms stayed limp, but at last Gendry returned his embrace, tight and fierce for the sweetest of seconds.

They broke apart. Ned kicked his horse and pressed on with Arya. Behind him he heard Mott speak.

"Now get on with you. Lord Stark needs you now more than I do. You take care of that family Gendry."

Ned would remember those words in the future; but as they met with the rest of the Winterfell company, and Arya gave the boy a bright smile before going to join her sister in the wheelhouse, Ned couldn't have known how important Mott's sacrifice had been, or how true his words.


	7. Silent

**Based off a prompt I received on tumblr. Arya and Gendry in the aftermath of the Great Battle**

* * *

It was silent. The snow had stopped.

It was over.

The Night King had perished in a storm of ice and darkness that had taken so many more of the army of the living with him. Another of Daenerys's dragons had been lost – Drogon, defending his mother – and a wolf, too. The Wise Wolf, Bran, one of the last to fall. Her little brother.

But it was over.

Her heart ached and she was trembling and she'd lost Needle a long time ago and she was fairly sure those were tears frozen to her face – but it was over.

There was no great roar of victory. How could there be when the dead outnumbered the living? All around her people dropped into the snow beside someone frozen and unmoving. Frantic grabs for cloth to stopper wounds, wails for those whose blood had stopped long before the battle, and joyous shouts of names across the snow fields as friends saw each other still standing on two legs – all of it surrounded Arya.

She stood in the snow, still and gasping, her breath frosting in front of her eyes. She watched as that great, hulking Wildling with the fiery hair hauled Jon up from the Snow. She saw Davos crawl his way towards them, a bloody trail left in his wake before the Hound loped up and plucked him from the ground.

There was no Lord Beric. He had died his last death. Sweet Sam lay slain. Three men were frantically hovering over Brienne, stripping her armour and binding the wounds – doing whatever they could to keep another one alive. One of them was Jamie Lannister.

But she couldn't see _him_.

* * *

 _Arya ducked just in time. She felt the slice of air as the blade swung overhead. She leapt under the wight's arm and took off its head with a ragged cut. Her sword work had stopped being neat several deaths ago._

 _"Arry – side face!"_

 _Her jerkin caught the tip of a spear this time, and she shoved Needle through its eye socket – thanking the Gods Gendry had agreed to tip it with dragon glass. She turned with thanks on her lips, to see him smashing a path towards her with his war hammer. Wights' chests caved in and their skulls cracked and he was standing next to her, panting._

 _"Thought you were supposed to be quick?"_

 _She laughed and shoved him out the way, gutting the wight that had crept up behind him. She heard him swinging at her back – defending her blind spot._

 _"I'll remember that next time!"_

 _"Next time? Plan on doing this again, are we?"_

 _She dived and rolled on the snow and Gendry swung where her head would have been. Another wight down. "Aren't you having fun?"_

 _He huffed disbelieving as she parried, and he blocked, and they beat the beasts back. "Don't get cocky now Arya – stay alive. Or you'll have me to answer to."_

 _She laughed again – that strange little giggle she'd returned with and had no place on a battlefield. "A terrifying prospect."_

 _A hand grabbed her arm and she'd raised her catspaw before she'd realised it was Gendry. Only her reflexes saved him from a fresh gash in his arm. "I mean it, Arry. You better be breathing after this, or I'll – "_

 _"You'll what?" she'd said, more defensive than she'd meant to._

 _He'd stared, blue eyes afraid and he gripped harder. "I don't know."_

 _I don't know. I don't know what I'd do without you. I don't know. I don't know. Don't die._

 _"I do."_

 _And she did. This boy who had been with her through everything since they were thrown together on the Kings Road. This boy who had fought for her, followed her, obeyed and challenged her, who had been the closest friend she'd ever had in her life. This boy who had chosen to leave because he didn't want to watch her mother and brother take her away from him. This man who had helped her family when she hadn't been there, who had armed them and given them the means to protect themselves. This man who had been the one to help her find her way out of the darkness of the House of Black and White._

 _Of course she knew. Of course._

 _She could see the wights rushing them again. Their reprieve was over._

 _"Do you hear me," she hissed. "_ I do. _"_

 _Gendry's eyes brightened as her meaning dawned on him. There was no time – the wights were here. He was already raising his hammer and she was already preparing her body to spring. There was no time, except for –_

 _"I love you, too."_

She'd lost him after that. There had been no more reprieves – not until the battle was won. The dead had fought fiercely and relentlessly, and their salvation had been the death of the Night King.She hadn't even been able to risk a glance to look for him. And now, as she surveyed the battlefield, she couldn't see his unmistakeable form anywhere.

She didn't want to have to kneel in the snow and roll bodies stiff with ice over on their backs. She didn't want to have to pry open eyelids and see that Baratheon blue clouded over. She _wouldn't_.

Snow crunched under feet behind her. Arya spun on her heel, and whatever breath she'd had left, left her.

His cloak had gone. The staff of his hammer had been snapped off and he was holding it by the jagged stump that remained. His left eye and his nose were bloody, there was a slice across his throat, and one shoulder drooped down so far, she knew it was dislocated.

But he was _there_.

She stepped to him, slowly, and he stood still and waited. When she got close enough that they were sharing air, she let her hand reach out, and her fingertips caught the sharp edges of broken chainmail.

He was alive.

A hoarse, broken, sigh fell from split lips. "Arry."

She could have said a thousand things, yet she didn't. "You look terrible."

Gendry may have laughed or sobbed, she wasn't sure. He tried to shrug with one limp shoulder. "You don't look too great, yourself."

And what a strange moment it was to feel a flicker of self-consciousness about the blood that was matting her hair.

"That is no way to speak to someone you love, Ser."

Gendry blushed and raised his good arm and rubbed the back of his head. "Yeah well, you said it to me first."

I love you, or that he looked terrible? She wasn't sure and it didn't matter.

"I did."

He dropped the remains of his hammer and laid one massive hand over her slight wrist and tugged. She let him – went willingly, even. He was too big and she was too small to allow him to rest his head against hers. But he clutched her tight with one arm and set his chin on her hair, blood and all.

"You did as you were told, for once," he murmured.

"Hmm. Don't expect it to happen again."

She looked up at him. The adrenaline from the battle was wearing off and she hurt all over, everywhere. They both needed a maester, but their hearts were beating, they were bleeding, and even in the snow Gendry was impossible warm. And it was all that mattered.

A hand with split knuckles cradled her cheek and she covered it with her own. Gendry's breath ghosted across her lips and thawed the frost there as he leaned down. In a moment neither of them had thought they would get the chance to share, their cracked and bloody lips met in a sweet kiss. Gendry was careful, gentle, trying to keep more blood from her face despite the fact that she was drenched already, and Arya didn't want to hurt him anymore than he already was. A soft press of lips that left her warm. They parted, hands still clutching each other, and shared a moment of peace on the snow fields. Around them, their army was gathering the wounded, burning the dead, and preparing to make their way back to the camp that most of them had thought they'd never see again.

Arya wanted to return to Winterfell. She wanted to settle with her sister and her brother and look after the North as her father and ancestors had done before her. They were a pack, and they had survived. And as Gendry refused to drop her hand as they followed the troops away from the battlefield, and she felt like maybe he was the only thing keeping her from shattering, she refused to consider Winterfell without him. Gendry may be a Baratheon – technically – but Arya was determined he was a Stark. He was hers.


	8. Stare

**Based off the prompt "Honestly, the worst thing you can do is stare". Set when the Starks are reunited at Winterfell and have begun preparing for the War with the Night King.**

* * *

"Honestly, the worst thing you can do is stare."

Winter was in his blood. He was a Stark of Winterfell, even if he was a Snow. But Sansa had learned to step so silently that Jon Snow slipped and had to grip the wooden railings to keep his feet when she spoke from behind him.

"Sansa," he breathed, his breath a cloud in front of him. "You nearly killed me."

"Only because you're feeling guilty." She stepped to his side. "She knows when you do it."

He briefly contemplated denying the whole thing, but he'd always struggled getting anything past his sisters. Instead, he valiantly fought a blush and followed Sansa's eyes to the ground below them.

Arya, as usual, was prancing around the ground she'd claimed for training their troops alongside Ser Brienne. Except she wasn't correcting the minutiae of some new recruit's stance or soundly thrashing Podrick _again_. No. Today, she was giving training her everything. Leaping in arcs and rolling on the floor to avoid her opponent's blows. Gaining ground and losing it and laughing with unbridled glee, and gnashing her teeth and growling.

Today, she was training with Gendry. Today, she was training with Gendry and his _war hammer._

Jon wasn't too proud to admit he was brooding. At least to himself. "I can't help it," he said out loud and petulant.

But truly he couldn't. Not since the very moment he'd seen their eyes meet when Davos had returned to Winterfell with Gendry in tow. Arya had stalked down the steps, surefooted as if there weren't three layers of eye rendering the wood slippery and treacherous, her eyes focused like Ghost when he'd found his supper traipsing around in the woods. And Gendry - the idiot - had just stood there and let her come for him when a smarter man would have fled. He'd opened his mouth and said something Jon couldn't hear and Arya had thrown herself at him and shoved him into the snow, face first. She'd straddled his back and poked Needle into the back of his neck. He'd laughed - loud and booming - and stood with Arya still on his back. Thoughtlessly, he'd grabbed her legs and turned to see her over his shoulder, so close their noses were almost touching. She'd half crawled over him and he'd half-dragged her and then they were embracing. His face was buried in her shoulder and her hands were white, clutching him so hard.

Davos had to cough three times before they'd sprung apart. Arya had bared her teeth in that awful grin she had now and Gendry had blushed and stared at the floor until Jon had let him escape to the forge.

"They do make quite a spectacle."

Jon huffed and had to agree. Gendry wasn't holding back, making Arya work to best him. But although he was impossibly graceful with a hammer, she was always quicker, always more agile. On the battlefield they would each be the other's weakness. Gendry's the slighter, faster opponents and Arya's those great hulking beasts against which Needle could do little.

"Yes. They do. We're not the only audience they have."

Everyone around them had stopped to watch them battle it out. There was a bet, he'd heard, and a tally. Even from here he could see more than one man and woman exchanging slips and taking notes.

"Does that bother you?" Her tone was careful and Jon couldn't interpret it.

"Does it bother _you_?"

Only then did she take her eyes off their sister and their smith. "When did you last hear her laugh like that, before Ser Davos delivered him to our gates?"

When he'd given her Needle.

"You wouldn't have said that once upon a time."

She laughed, happily he was surprised to hear. "No. I would have called him a bastard. A dirty smith who shouldn't be looking at ladies, let alone swinging a war hammer at them or carrying them on his back or letting them swan into the forge as they please. But then, there was a time I would have sworn I didn't love my sister. Or you. How stupid I was."

"We were children."

"All the same. I don't miss that girl."

A great shout drew their attention back to the training yard and Gendry was on his back, his hammer a foot away from him and Arya was kneeling on his shoulders, holding Needle at a strange angle behind her. Jon did not want to look too closely to see where exactly she held it against the defeated man. A man, he noted, who didn't look displeased _at all_.

"They missed each other," he said, mostly to himself. "Do you know their story - how they met? What happened to them?"

Sansa shook her head. "Only that they met after father was murdered. She hasn't told me anything else."

Now that the crowds were dispersing and Arya was hauling all of Gendry's bulk to his feet, Sansa turned to him. "People talk about them though. Arya is still seen as a valuable little prize to some of our Lords. Will you separate them?"

A challenge. Women might be a mystery to him, but he knew a challenge when he was given one.

"No." He said once and firmly. "Sansa, I won't make either of you do anything you don't want to. I won't make you marry. I won't sell you. There are other ways to work out the line of succession."

One nod, A genuine smile and a pat on the hand before she let him take her arm. She was pleased. He let himself breathe.

"You are a good brother Jon Snow."


	9. A Dragon in Winterfell

**From a prompt on my tumblr. Jon has a little fun interrogating Gendry, and Sansa is suspicious of the Dragon Queen.**

* * *

Winterfell had seen much in its long history. It had seen war and peace. It had seen loyalty and betrayal. It had seen the death of many a Stark, and even some returned from the dead. But never, in the thousands of years Winterfell had stood tall, had it ever seen a sight like this day.

Dragons. Or three, to be precise.

Arya stood in awe. It was something she didn't think she would feel again, after King's Landing; after Harrenhal; after the House of Black and White. But as soon as the air had warmed, the wind had picked up and whipped her hair about her face, and those three monstrous beasts had been seen circling above her ancestral home, she'd felt like a child again.

Viserion, Jon had called him, had landed in their courtyard. The Dragon Queen had sent her other two children to fly outside the walls. It snorted, and stomped and swished a tail she was sure could level a small army. She wanted to get closer, see if he could count its scales or see her face reflected in its eyes, but for the first time in her life, she didn't dare.

So she stood, and she watched.

* * *

Jon laughed. "He won't hurt you."

Gendry hadn't taken his eyes off the great green-scaled dragon since Jon had summoned him over. He trusted Jon, He'd chosen to follow him as his King. He'd fight for him and he'd die for him; but here he stood, faced with a monster long thought extinct which could swallow him whole. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought this was some kind of test on his loyalty.

As it was, he only managed a snort and a mumbled "If you say so, Your Grace."

Jon chuckled, and ran a gloved hand over the enormous scaled belly. "Well, I wouldn't be too surprised. He's in Winterfell because of you."

That at last got him Gendry's attention. Blue eyes, wide and startled and very nearly accusing, glared at him. "I – what?"

"Your raven," he smirked. "That the fires aren't hot enough for you to forge the dragonglass into weapons as fast as we need you to."

Lines creased Gendry's brow. "Beg pardon, your Grace, but I don't follow."

"Let me ask you, Gendry – what is hotter than dragon fire?"

Confusion gave way to horror and Gendry scrambled back, turning his back and striding away through the crowds. "Oh, no. No, no, no, Jon."

Jon howled with laughter. "Ge-Gendry!" He choked and chased after him. "Get back here."

"I won't be having no dragon breathing fire into my forge. There are kinder ways to kill me, Your Grace!"

Jon caught one of the blacksmith's massive shoulders and swallowed the last of his mirth. "That's not quite how it works, Gendry. You've nothing to fear."

Gendry's face was in his hands. "I'm going to have to tell Arya your mind's broken. You do see the dragon, yes? And I'm no Targaryen. I _burn_ , Jon."

Jon managed to drag him forward a few heavy, reluctant feet, until he was again within arms reach of Viserion. "We'll have him light torches for us. I'll do it myself it that makes you feel better. He won't have to go near your forge and you don't have to be within ten yards of him if you don't want it."

Jon had whirled Gendry around to face the dragon. It started at him and huffed and stamped and he was fairly certain the rumbling in his ears wasn't from underneath the foundations of Winterfell.

Gendry swallowed, his throat suddenly very dry. "I don't think he's too thrilled to be near me."

And to his horror, Jon looked more intrigued about that than concerned. "Mayhaps he senses your Baratheon blood," he whispered low.

" _Seven hells_ ," Gendry cursed. "Well if we could keep that from the Dragon Queen over there, I might make it through this war without being turned to ash."

Jon sobered and nodded grimly. "Aye. I don't plan on telling her just yet, at any rate. Wouldn't do to have Daenerys wake up in the middle of the night to Needle pressed against her throat, all because she decided to burn my sister's favourite smith."

Fear forgotten, Gendry blushed like a maid and studied his boots. "She'd do no such thing, Your Grace. That is – I'm not – she doesn't –"

Truth be told Jon was enjoying this perhaps too much. "What are you saying, Gendry? That you would disappoint my sister?"

"No! I would never –"

"Then you would hope to gain the favour of a Princess of the North?"

"No, I know my place, Your Grace. I'm just – we were just children and –"

"Mayhaps I should introduce you to Viserion properly," Jon said, and he was only half way teasing. "Protect my sister's honour and her heart."

But rather than blush an even deeper (and alarming) shade of red, Gendry's spine seemed to snap straight, and his eyes burned like ice and he stared back at his King.

"I would never do anything to hurt your sister, Your Grace. But she doesn't need your protection – or mine."

Jon stared back.

"When we were together, I promised myself I would look out for her – tiny little thing running around and getting into fights she had no business jumping into. But truth be told, she was the one protecting me, more often than not. She had so many chances to run – on her own – but she didn't. She never left me behind. Even when the Brotherhood sold me, she tried to fight two armed guards to keep me with her. And then I wasn't there to pretend like I was looking after her, and neither were you, and she learned how to do it for herself. Now's not the time to pretend like she needs us, Jon. But she wants us. And I'll do everything I can not to let her down again."

Jon stayed silent, but his heart was both aching with hurt and swelling with pride; and for a moment, he saw Gendry in plated armour, polished until it shone and engraved with the stag of House Baratheon, standing proud with his war hammer like his father before him. In the smith before him, he saw the Lord he could have been born to be, and he made a small promise to himself. Once the war was won, and the snow settled, and the realm had found peace again, he would seek out the smith. He would make the offer to him, once and once only because he knows of this man's infamous stubbornness, and perhaps he could do something to help a fellow bastard boy improve his lot in life. If Gendry happened to find someone's hand along the way to help him share the burden of Lordship, well, Jon would be delighted.

* * *

She heard the Dragon queen exactly eight steps behind her, before she saw her come to stand at her side. Even as slight as she was – little taller than Arya – she was almost as noisy as Jon when she moved.

"He's striking, isn't he?" She spoke, voice silky and calm.

"It's fucking magnificent," Arya had said bluntly.

She heard the small choking laugh the little Queen had tried to swallow, and could feel those curious eyes study her profile. "You are not afraid?"

Arya shook her head. "I'm not about to run up and embrace it, but I can appreciate it all the same."

"Would you like to meet him?"

Arya turned to face her – Daenerys, she'd heard her called – and studied the face for insincerity, or mirth. But none was there. Yet even so Arya shook her head. "Tempting, but not today. I have a legion of recruits to train and all of them are awful."

Daenerys tensed next to her. "Truly? Do the North's troops need so much training?"

Sansa spoke from Arya's side and the younger Stark let herself smile at the small jump she felt from the invading Queen. "Arya's definition of awful is very different to everyone else's. Only Ser Brienne has any skill in her eyes, Your Grace."

"Lady Stark," Daenerys inclined her head and gave as sweet a smile as she could. "I thank you for again granting me the hospitality of your home."

Sansa looked to the Queen, proffered a courtesy and remembered all her courtesies ( _"It is my honour, Your Grace."_ ), but she looked at her with eyes as cold as winter and unforgiving like the snows that blew in on the harsh northern winds. She had been told by Lord Tyrion that the Ladies of Winterfell were like Summer and Winter – night and day. Arya, she'd heard, was wild and impossible to tame. Truly the fiercest of wolves. But Sansa, Lord Tyrion had spoken of her with a soft voice she'd never heard from him before and told her of the sweetest, truest of ladies, with a fortitude he'd never seen in anyone before, or indeed since. And yet, whenever she came to Winterfell, she was met with an aloof, wary host. One full of all the proper courtesies of course, but a Lady suspicious of her all the same. And she had no idea how to change that.

And then Lady Arya abandoned them. She barked her hellos at Jon, ordered Gendry to meet her for the noon meal, and marched off back to her waiting recruits, no doubt to make them work for the brief reprieve the arrival of the dragon had given them.

And so, Daenerys decided then and there to take a leaf from The King in the North's book, and approach the matter head on.

"My Lady, do I make you uncomfortable?"

The question was unexpected enough for a small flicker of surprise to blossom over Sansa's face. In truth, Daenerys had expected rushed assurances that nothing could be further from the truth, but again Sansa defied her. She found herself under scrutiny of those blue eyes and waited patiently for their judgment.

"I am not uncomfortable, You Grace," Sansa spoke at length. "But I do not think you belong here. Dragon's are as suited to the ices of the North as wolves are to the fires of the South."

Daenerys let herself marvel for a moment at the carefully chosen words. Honest yes, and not a note of rebellion or disrespect. But they were, unmistakably, words that wished her gone. Perhaps she too then, could surprise someone today.

"I agree with you," she said, and enjoyed curious look the Lady of Winterfell rewarded her with. "I do not plan to keep my dragons here, or drag a wolf back with me to the South."

"Jon declared for you."

"He did. And I will expect him to honour his half of our agreement. What I mean to say Lady Stark, is once the war's have all been won, I will allow this King in the North to return to these frozen lands he loves so much," she smiled.

"Provided he gives you the North."

Daenerys took one of Sansa's hands in her own and gently turned this Great Lady to face her. "Perhapss. Or mayhaps there are other ways to secure the peace of the realm. I told him you see," she squeezed those hands a little tighter, "before he left for that crazed mission beyond the wall. I'd come to like this King in the North, after everything. Even if he is honest and true to the point of fault."

Daenerys stepped forward and claimed kiss from Sansa's cheek. The Lady dipped into a courtsey as she stepped back and released her hands. Proudly, the last thing she saw before she moved to return to her beloved Viserion, was the faintest of smiles finally gracing the rose-pink lips of Lady Stark.

Truly, Daenerys thought as she walked away, she was coming to like these Starks immensely, stubborn, taciturn, odd little natures and all.


	10. Sworn Sisters (pt 1)

**From this year's Gendrya Week.**

 **I've always been interested in how Gendry interacts with different characters, and his use of eye contact.** **Sansa is suspicious of this stranger who's so attached to her sister, and tries to get to the bottom of things.**

* * *

To say that Sansa had learnt to be wary of men was a cruel and cold understatement. She had learnt some of the hardest lessons of her life at their hands. Her father had taught her that no man could protect her. Joffrey had taught her that men would always find new ways to be cruel. Petyr taught her that to men, women were little more than currency.

Strange then, how after her own cruelties towards him when they were children, her bastard brother was the only man she trusted. Well, perhaps his kindly, true-faced advisor would someday join that list. Sansa like the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

Some when she was faced with a new man – a strange man – who was close to her family, Sansa felt her hackles rise – that thrumming, protective current she'd so often felt from lady in the short time they'd been allowed together.

Arya had thrown herself at the blacksmith. She'd thrown him around the training yard. She'd thrown him around the Great Hall in a reel at the last banquet. Though her fierce little sister may hum and bluster and divert Sansa whenever she tried to ask her about him, Sansa still knew; this boy was _someone_ to Arya, which meant he had to become someone to her.

And he was a stranger, and Sansa never trusted a stranger. Especially on that did all he could to avoid looking you in the eye.

It had taken her a while to notice it. She'd thought him shy, and reclusive at first, and she supposed that was still true, but whether he was in the company of other craftsmen, messenger boys, cooks, lords or ladies – Gendry did his best to make himself invisible. With his massive frame, he couldn't hide anywhere, and so Sansa had watched him and saw how – even when talking to someone – his eyes would flit around, fix on some distant spot, and take in everything but whomever he was addressing. To Sansa, this spoke of hidden secrets, deceit, and treachery.

The only thing that kept her from expelling him from Winterfell, were the times she would catch him from the corner of her eye, calmly talking with Jon, excitedly showing Davos what he'd been working on that day, or hopelessly gazing at her sister as Arya barked orders at him and tugged him this way and that as she wanted him to accompany her at random points throughout her day.

So, Sansa had summoned him when he knew Arya had ridden off with a hunting party and wouldn't be around to thwart her plans until well into the evening. Brienne had announced him, her smile gentle and mischievous because of course Sansa's lady warrior was already inordinately fond of him. Despite his size, he had stepped carefully into Sansa's private council rooms, eyes fixed firmly on the flagstone floor. Even when she'd bade him sit, poured him some wine, and interrogated about his life in King's Landing, she'd barely gotten a glimpse of the famous blue eyes of House Baratheon.

Sansa switched tactics to get to the heart of this man, to weigh him and judge him and root out what he was to her sister – what he was to her family.

"Ser Gendry," she said. "I have not heard the tale of how you met my sister."

Victory. His eyes glanced up from the floor, settled close to her shoulder and held there whilst he hesitated around his tongue.

"It's not my story to tell, Lady Stark."

She bit the inside of her lip. Her fingers tapped the rim of her goblet. "Arya doesn't seem to think it a tale worth the telling, either. Am I to remain forever in the dark?"

Gendry tapped his knees. "That is between you and m'lady, Lady Stark."

She bit back a sigh. "Well. You can hardly blame me for being curious. You are the closest thing to a friend I have ever seen her have."

The edges of Gendry's lips twitched and Sansa thought she could see the faint dusting of a blush underneath his dark stubble. His eyelashes blinked slowly over eyes fixed on hands clasped in front of him.

"She' not the same girl I grew up with," Sansa said as she watched him. "None of us are the same, of course. But even after everything she's been through, you seem to know my sister better than anyone."

Gendry relaxed his hands, set back in his chair a little and the wood squeaked under him. He eyed the wine bottle. A gracious hostess, Sansa went to refill his cup, but saw that he hadn't even taken a sip.

"The wine is not to your liking, Ser?"

And she watched as his eyes darkened a flicker of something hard and angry briefly igniting as he glowered at the jug of sweet refreshment.

"I don't have much of a stomach for it."

Sansa sat back and considered. That was interesting, wasn't it. Bar her own excellent and misguided father, all men – even cunning Petyr who prized his sharp with above all things – were prone to indulge their thirsts. Whether power or wine or darker things that kept her sleeping with a knife under her pillow, men would always make their play, sooner or later. Yet here Gendry sat, his throat dry and only showing Sansa herself enough attention as her questions demanded, courtesies be damned. So Sansa asked herself, what did he want?

"I asked you here for your advice, Gendry."

He frowned, scratched his cheek with broken nails ad his eyes danced around the room. "I don't – forgive me Lady Stark, but I don't know what you could possibly –"

"On a matter concerning Arya."

His eyes stopped dancing. They fixed on the window where the light streamed in.

"You are one of the few who has seen first-hand what we'll be facing in this war," Sansa pressed. "So you know how important alliances are to us, now. Without able-bodied people, we will never make it through Winter. The best way to secure alliances is through marriage."

Gendry turned his had to face her, eyes still down though his jaw was tenses, his nostrils were flaring, and his hands were clenched tightly in his lap. Sansa pushed him a little further.

"Arya would never consider it herself of course. As her sister, it falls to me to consider it for her."

Sansa flicked her eyes to the folds in her dress just briefly, idly picking at a stray thread she made a mental note to fix later. Yet, when she looked up, Gendry was no longer looking at his lap, or the windows, or the floor, or any possible escape routes. For the first time since Davos had led him through the gates, Gendry Waters – the bastard Baratheon – looked her in the eye.

There was no uncertainty. No apology. His eyes – bright and blue and steadfast – held her where she sat.

"Consider what, Lady Stark?"

"Marriage." Sansa was proud of her even voice. "I would ask your advice on who would most suit my sister in marriage."

Sansa wasn't sure what she had expected when. Stuttering blushes, stony silence, shame or embarrassment. Well. She would have been wrong on all counts if she had.

She'd heard about his temper. Not malicious and arrogant like his Father had been. But the smithies that worked under him grumbled under their breaths about how hard he worked them, the standards he expected of them, and his ire when they didn't meet them. Jon would grimace every time he had to go the forge to relay news he knew would upset his friend. Arya would always laugh and tease the man for being a _stubborn bull_.

And Sansa could see it now for herself. There was something crackling behind those eyes – a heat that burned up all the hesitancy and shyness she'd sidled into the room with.

Ours is the Fury, indeed.

At length he spoke. "You would do that to her, after everything?"

One of Sansa's sleek brows quirked, surprised. That hadn't been the answer she'd been expecting. But Gendry continued.

"She's fought for you – to get back to you and whatever was left of her family. Ever since King's Landing and –" A hand rubbed violently against his nose and he fell silent.

"My sister will have to marry eventually, Ser."

Gendry threw up his hands, brought a thumb up to his mouth and bit down – as if he were forcing words back down his throat. As he breathed, steadying himself it seemed, she saw something seep into his eyes – something that softened the hardness there.

"Your former Brotherhood," she said, "brought a young lord with them, I believe. He seems quite partial to my sister. Granted he is a little to… _eager_ to please, but I'm sure he could learn quickly –"

"Dayne?" Gendry spluttered. "You want to marry her off to Ned Dayne?!"

"You do not think it a good match?"

And then, it was if Gendry had forgotten he was speaking to the Lady of the House he had sworn to serve. Because before the eyes of Lady Sansa of Winterfell, Gendry sat and sulked.

"No," he muttered. "No, it's a perfect match. Couldn't be better."

Sansa pressed her lips thin to stop from smiling. "He seems kind and genial," she prodded. "He would treat her well and I would not force her into an unhappy union."

"But you're still forcing her into one! Why must you force her at all?" _There._ Sansa contained her glee at pushing Gendry off that precipice. One tumble and she would have the answers she needed. "She doesn't want to-"

"-to marry?" Sansa cut him off. "That was true when we were children, but she's a woman grown, now. I'm sure her feelings have changed."

"Yes – for the worse. Getting married is the last thing on her mind. All she wants is her family and you can't – you can't force her from her home because it's convenient for you. _Gods_ , she swore you'd changed. She swore you wouldn't do this to her –"

"You know this how?" And if Sansa sounded sharper than she intended, Gendry didn't say anything. "How do you know my sister's feelings?" _How do you know my sister?_

"Because she tells me!" Gendry was on his feet, staring down at her. "She tells me that finding all of you again has finally given her some peace. She tells me that she's afraid of this war not because of the dead, but because she's terrified that she'll lose someone else. She tells me how proud she is of you for being the Lady the North needs. She just wants to be _happy_. She just wants –"

"You?"

Her words acted like water, dousing the fire that had ignited within Gendry. His breathe left him in a hard huff, his entire frame deflated, and his eyes fell back to the floor.

Sansa was furious with herself.

"That's not –"

"Gendry, _look_ at me." The command was clear, and Gendry obeyed.

"What do you want from my sister?"

And it seemed Gendry had read as much from her in that moment, as she had from him. Where she saw a sadness, and a warmth that she suspected the mere mention of Arya helped to blossom within his chest, Gendry must have read her true intent, and he sighed and spoke.

"You have nothing to fear from me, Lady Stark. I'm not here to hurt her – or anyone. I just want her to be happy." He ran his hands through his hair, drew a breath and braced himself. "M'lady always seemed to like Ned. She became friends with him straight away when they met. If she must marry – if I can't change your mind on that – then yes. Ned's a good man."

He lurched to his feet and turned his back to Sansa. His steps seemed heavy and his shoulders stopped as he thrust the door open and made to step outside.

"Gendry –"

He didn't turn back to her. He didn't give her a final look into his eyes. But his voice was hoarse and thick and she thought, perhaps, that was a mercy. "S'a fine choice, Lady Stark. But I need to be getting back to my forge."

He stepped out the door and was gone.


	11. Sworn Sisters (pt 2)

**From this year's Gendrya Week.**

 **The aftermath of Sansa's conversation with Gendry.**

* * *

Sansa had been playing their conversation over and over in her head. For three days she recalled his every expression, every hitch in his breath and nervous tick. Every emotion she could possibly have discerned from him was picked apart and laid before her eyes from dawn to dusk.

It had left her cold and uncomfortable.

All she wanted was to protect her family. By all accounts that had reached her ears, Gendry was a good and honest man – if a little grumpy – but she couldn't trust her sister's safety merely by the words of others. She had to see it for herself.

And she had. She had seen him sit there, uncomfortable but trying to do his best to please his Lady, Arya's sister. She had seen him grow fire in his belly and passion when he thought she would do anything to make Arya upset. She had watched that fire burn out and the man retreat inside himself, as he put Arya's happiness before his own.

Even if she hadn't, she'd had it laid painfully bare before her that evening as she retired for bed.

Arya had been waiting her for her.

One day, Sansa Stark would cease being caught unawares by her sister, but it was not that day, and she hoped the maids wouldn't be too put out finding another scorch mark in the furs on her chamber floors, from a candle dropped in fright.

"Stop doing that," she huffed.

Arya didn't look as pleased to have surprised her as she usually did.

"Do you need something, or are you planning on giving me nightmares standing over me all night."

Arya ignored her at first. She watched her sister ready herself for bed, and waited until he slipped under heavy linens and furs, and stepped lightly up, next to her head. Sansa's eyes were already closed.

"I know you have no plans to marry me off."

They snapped open.

"Well, I – yes," Sansa stammered. "We spoke about this. We agreed."

Arya nodded gravely. "Except Gendry seems to be under a different impression entirely. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

She cursed the blush she felt heating her face. Arya cursed and spat and stomped her feet.

"I knew it – I _knew_ it! What the hell were you playing at, Sansa?!"

"I just –" she scrambled to sit up. "I just wanted to get to know him."

"Then ask –"

"You wouldn't tell me anything about him! I asked you, several times; how did you meet? How do you know him? Tell me about him. You never told me anything. What was I supposed to do Arya? Trust a complete stranger with my family –"

"You're supposed to trust _me_!"

Sansa felt a flush of shame. "I am sorry."

Arya's spine snapped straight and she turned on her heel, marching for the door. "Fix this, Sansa," she ordered over her shoulder. "He won't even talk to me so just – _fix it_."

So on the third night, after Gendry had somehow managed to weasel his way out of two summons to her council rooms, she found herself stealing over the courtyard well into the night, determined and dainty strides taking her directly to the forge.

The door was slightly ajar, and she could see a gentle glow inside. Sansa took a moment, and a breath, and squared her shoulders as she strode to the door. Her finger tips reach forward to curl around the silken, soft, worn wood and tug it open – until two voices still her grasp.

" – 'an't just go breaking in here, Arya." The voice was low and gruff. Gendry.

"My name is Stark isn't it? This _is_ Winterfell? That means I can do whatever I want." Her sister's voice was cold and angry.

She heard a bitter laugh. "Yeah. Course. Do whatever you want, then. But I'm going to bed."

There was a scuffle and some huffing, and Sansa heard the dull thumps of skin hitting skin –

"You will stay _here_ ," and Arya's voice wasn't so cold anymore. It was high and cracking. "If I have to command you, you will _stay_."

Silence.

"Three days, Gendry. You've been punishing me for my sister's idiocy for three days."

A soft tap of a foot on the dirt floor. "M'not punishing you for anything."

Arya scoffed. "No? You haven't been locking me out of the forge, or taking on more work than you can handle, to avoid me? I don't know why you're being so stupid!"

"And I don't know why you're pretending like it can be anything different!"

" _Gendry –_ "

He was almost shouting now. "It was going to happen eventually wasn't it? We were kidding ourselves, Arry. Some _pissing_ high born lord was going to come along and –"

"And what," Arya growled. "Claim me?"

"Take you away from me."

There was more shuffling, and the sounds of small steps and Sansa suspected her sister had stepped up to the Blacksmith's chest.

"I'm not going anywhere you great lumbering idiot." There was more affection in her voice than Sansa had ever heard before. Even with Jon. "Sansa isn't going to marry me off. She was just trying to... Gods I don't even know what she was trying to do. Get to know I suppose."

Gendry huffed. "You weren't there. She made herself perfectly clear that you were not for me."

"Good thing she's not the one who gets to decide that, hmm?" Sansa heard grumbling and the soft slip of cloth meeting cloth. "Trust me Gendry. I know my sister. That wasn't her intent."

"Then what in the seven hells was it?"

"She doesn't know you. She was trying to change that. She can see how important you are to me. She's not completely stupid you know – unlike you. She knows by now you're not going anywhere. I think she just wants to know what we mean to each other."

Gendry huffed. "But you're sisters. Why did she have to come after me? She could have just asked you."

Even Sansa could hear the blush filling the silence.

"Arya, for fuck _sake_ –"

"Yes, yes – I know! I'm sorry," and Sansa nearly fell through the door when she heard her sister's voice muffle and the soft sound of a sweet kiss. "I promise I'll talk to her. Soon. And with lots of wine, but soon."

Gendry hummed. "I mean – I can, if you want me to. It's just –"

"No, it's okay," Arya soothed. "But – what?"

Sansa thinks that might have been a laugh. "I have no idea how to – _say_ what you mean to me. I'm a blacksmith Arry girl, not a bloody poet. I'm not even Tom o' Sevenstreams." _There_. That was definitely a chuckle she could hear along with Arya's raspy little laugh.

"Good," another kiss. "I can't bear poets. And Tom's an arse."

"Yeah he is," Gendry said fondly. "But –"

"I know, Gendry. Me too."

Slowly, carefully, Sansa peeked her eyes around the doorway, and saw her sister, wrapped all up in Gendry on her tiptoes, as he leaned down to peck kisses on her mouth, along her jaw and in her hair. He clutched her tighter to him, as he kissed her forehead, and cradled her in his embrace. His eyes were closed where he finally rested his chin atop her crown.

It was time for her to slip away.

As she walked back to her chambers, a soft smile played at her lips. Perhaps, she thought as she finally reached her room, and blew out the candles, she could add one more name to the list of people she could trust. Jon's name had been looking awfully lonely, lately.


	12. Sworn Sisters (pt 3)

**Part 3 of the Sworn Sisters series, inspired by this tears Gendrya Week and exploring the relationship between the two Ladies of House Stark.**

* * *

Sansa Stark – the Lady of Wolves, the Flame-haired beauty that ruled over Winterfell, her strong, decisive, leader of a sister – was drunk.

Sansa had rapped on her chamber door not an hour earlier, a carafe of wine and two goblets in hand She was wrapped in her nightclothes and furs, her pink toes peeking out at the bottom. She'd smirked at her sister – as much as Sansa could smirk because her smiles, although much rare now than they ever were, had always been sincere – and announced, 'We need to talk.'

She'd pushed straight past Arya and gracefully sidled onto her bed, drawing her long legs up and crossing them before pouring the wine into the goblets. She dangled one at Arya who stood staring with the door still open.

Arya hadn't seen this side of Sansa in years. She'd watched her older sister since they had reunited at their ancestral home, and of all the Starks, Arya thought Sansa was the most changed. Gone was the simpering, delicate thing she had so detested as a child. In her place stood someone resolute and unyielding. A skilled politician and tactician, more effective for the veil of courtesies she weaved around herself. Arya found that she admired this new sister of hers, and would happily act as her right hand of justice as she ruled over Winterfell.

Yet now, after several goblet-fulls and more than a few spillages over the furs and blankets that lined her bed, Arya had no idea where that sister had gone.

Sansa sat, her feet resting on top of Arya's, her lips stretched in a true smile and cheeks full of the blush of wine. And she was – by the Gods – giggling.

"Why didn't you tell me about him?" She asked, eyeing her sister slyly (or so she thought). "You told me about wearing faces and poisoning people and slashing throats – but you couldn't tell me about a _boy_?"

Arya rolled her eyes, quietly enjoying seeing her perfect sister lose her composure. "There's nothing to tell. He's a friend. We were separated, once. And here we are."

Sansa nodded sagely. "And here you are. Being watched by a blacksmith - who looks suspiciously like a dead king - wherever you go, and more often than not coming to the evening meal smelling of smoke."

Well. Arya hadn't believed she was capable of blushing anymore, but evidently, she was wrong.

"Did you know blacksmiths get soot on their hands, Arya? They leave _fingerprints._ "

Very wrong.

Sansa gave another breathy laugh and plucked Arya's goblet from her hands, filling it up again. She thrust it back and grinned at her sister.

"Tell me how you met – what were his first words to you?"

"By the Gods Sansa – what does that have to do with –"

"Just – indulge me, sweet sister Give me something."

Arya huffed and swallowed as much wine as she could choke down in one mouthful. Give her an army of the dead any day over this. "I don't even remember."

"Liar."

Arya bit her lip and reminded herself that their mother would be very disappointed in her manners if she were to take Needle and prick her sister.

"He asked me where I stole Needle."

Sansa's smile fell. "Honestly, Arya. You are so hopeless."

"What?!"

Sansa looked at her pointedly and spoke, like she used to speak to Rickon when he was being particularly difficult. "Why did he ask about Needle."

Arya shifted uncomfortably. "He – he, well. He may have seen me threaten a few of the other boys with it."

Sansa blinked. "Of course you did."

"They were trying to take it," Arya defended. "It was all I had left. Father had been murdered. Yoren chopped off all my hair. The Lannisters had you. All I had was Needle, and Hot Pie and Lommy weren't about to steal it from me."

"Hot pie and _who_?"

"Lommy. We became friends eventually, but you remember how little I was back then."

"Sure. Back then."

Arya smacked her foot. "Anyway," she grit her teeth. "They thought was an easy target. I proved them wrong."

"And Gendry…?"

She sighed, and drank more wine. Sansa gleefully followed her example.

"Well while they were busy pissing themselves when I was threatening them, they ended up backing into Gendry. He was fixing some tack on the horses. The idiot was absolutely massive even then, so you can imagine, if they were frightened of me, they weren't exactly going to start a fight with Gendry."

"But what did he say? Did he defend your honour?"

"Defend my –" Arya spluttered. "Get any and all romantic notions out of your head. Gods Sansa, he thought I was a little boy. He just – didn't like bullies, I suppose. Still doesn't."

Sansa fell silent but nudged Arya with her toes. A silent command, if ever she'd had one.

"He said, 'Like picking on the little ones, do you? I've been hammering an anvil these past ten years, and when I hit that steel, it sings. Will you sing when I hit you?'"

Sansa cackled and despite herself, Arya let one side of her lips crook up into a smile. Although she didn't much like being put under scrutiny, she was always more than happy to subject Gendry to it, especially when it meant he got a little appreciation.

"So he's a defender of the weak – how wonderful!"

Arya protested and Sansa shushed her. "You were the one who said it – he thought you were a little boy. He was protecting you."

Arya pressed her lips together, and reluctantly, agreed. "It's what we did. We looked after each other. When he found out I was a girl, he made sure none of the others did. Even at Harrenhal when we were stuck in pens, no one realised it until Tywin Lannister spelled it out for them."

And Sansa, cheeks flushed prettily from the wine, got this soft look in her eyes and sighed happily.

So Arya kicked her. "Stop. It."

Sansa kicked back, _hard_. "No. You'll give me this, and you'll like it."

Arya gulped down more wine and refilled their goblets, and Sansa took this as permission. "It makes me happy though, to know you had someone watching over you and keeping you safe."

Arya burst laughing, hands holding her side as she tipped over. She slumped over Sansa's feet and chuckled into the furs.

"Well pardon me for thinking of your safety," Sansa grumbled and wriggled her legs, trying to free them from under her sister.

Arya choked, trying to regain her breath. "Keeping me safe? Sansa have you _met_ Gendry? The only thing intimidating about him is his size."

Sansa quickly regained her spirits. "To you, maybe."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Don't you hear what people say about him? The other blacksmiths grumble and call him a taskmaster. Poor Maester Tarly can't get out a full two words to him without stumbling over them. He is rather… imposing, until you're around."

"You're being ridiculous –"

"Then he gets this silly, lovely smile, and I swear his eyes sparkle, and –"

" _Sansa!_ "

Sansa cackled.

"If they had seen him on The King's Road, they wouldn't be afraid, trust me."

At this, Sansa sobered a little. "He left you to fend for yourself?"

"What – no. No! He just – he has two left feet for starters and was horrible at swordplay. Though I suppose that all makes sense now. Stupid bull is gifted with a hammer I'll give him that –" Sansa choked on a mouthful of wine "- I actually have to _work_ to beat him now. No, we fought together but, he's Gendry. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"So you protected him then," Sansa smiled wickedly. "Defended his honour from the ladies at the inns along your road together."

Arya blushed fiercely and mumbled into her goblet. Sansa gasped and lurched forward, pulling it from her face. "What did you say?"

"It's not too far from the truth." And Sansa couldn't have looked more pleased. "Look it's a good thing I did. That woman was practically devouring him, and I've never seen anyone as terrified as he is when faced with a pair of tits. And, even more so in hindsight, since she thought it was a great idea to impress him by telling her how she was the bastard of a King."

"Oh – _Gods_ ," Sansa's nose screwed up in disgust. "She was his _sister?_ "

"Half of one, anyway."

Sansa grumbled and slid down until she was comfortably resting against Arya's shoulder. Her eyes slipped shut and her hands abandoned her empty goblet and clutched her sisters arm. "You were jealous?" she asked softly.

Arya would blame the wine in the morning, when she realised she'd answered her sister. "Yes. I didn't realise it at the time of course. We were children. But, yes."

"And now?"

"Now, what?"

"You don't have any reason to be jealous, now. He doesn't really look at anyone else apart from you. Not even that kitchen maid who tries to bring him lunch after you've already brought him something."

"How do you – I don't bring him – _ow!_ " Sansa pinched underneath her arm and buried her head deeper into the crook of her neck. "Fine! Go to sleep, Sansa."

Sansa's breaths slowed and deepened, and the logs crackled in the fireplace. Arya felt a rare sense of warmth spread through her, emanating from her chest. It was a feeling she didn't think she'd ever associate with her sister. She felt her own eyes growing heavy, and rested her cheek against the softness of Sansa's hair. In the morning, she swear faithfully to forget their entire conversation. Absolutely nothing would ever be mentioned ag-

"Hold on. Sansa – wake up! Which kitchen maid? _Sansa!_ "


	13. Red-handed

**From day 2 of this year's AxG Week: Caught red-handed. The residents of Winterfell are a bit slow on the uptake, and Arya and Gendry are terrible at covering their tracks.**

* * *

One day, and one day soon, Sansa would shackle her sister and keep her in a dungeon. That Winterfell didn't have one was a small matter. She would build one if it meant she could account for Arya's whereabouts at any given time.

But here she was, not half an hour before she was due to greet the visiting contingent from Bear Isle, chasing down her wild, wilful sister. She'd tried the training yards, the kitchens, her private chambers and even the council room, but there was no sight of her. She had traipsed down to the forge personally, not ten minutes ago, and walked in on Gendry running about, flushed with heat and breathless, and protesting his ignorance of Arya's whereabouts.

" _Forgive me Lady Stark,"_ he'd stammered, old swords in hand ready for repair or melting she wasn't sure. _"I haven't seen her all day. Maybe she's done riding? She mentioned she was itching to get past the walls for a bit."_

Well that did sound like her, even though Sansa would skin her if it were true. Brimming with frustration, Sansa decided to head back to Arya's rooms and lay out her clothes for her, before she renewed her efforts. She could order a rider to scout the woods closest to Winterfell and seek Arya out. Mayhaps she could stall Lady Mormont and her advisors enough to allow Arya an extra twenty minutes. She doubted it though. Lady Mormont was an ardent admirer of Arya Stark.

She pushed the doors to Arya's chamber open, strong enough for the door to smack loudly against the stone and came face to face with startled grey eyes.

Sansa nearly threw her clothes at her. "Where have you _been_?"

Arya was wrestling with the laces on her boots, hopping and staring at her sister. "I -um –"

Sansa bustled into the room, placing the clothes on the chair, and clasped her dainty fingers around Arya's raised ankle and dragged her hopping to the chair. She pushed her down and unlaced her boots with rapid accuracy. "You could have at least told me where you were going. I didn't know until Gendry told me you were probably riding –"

"Riding!" Arya blurted. "Yes, I was riding." She stood up and wiggled out of her breeches whilst Sansa unclasped her jerkin. "I've been cooped up in here too long, Sansa. Thought the fresh air would do me good."

Sansa paused in unceremoniously stripping her sister. She held the hem of Arya's soft linen shirt in her hands and spotted curious red-brown marks.

"Arya, what are these? Gods what have you been doing?" She maid to smooth out the crinkled fabric but Arya jerked away and ripped it over her head.

"Hurry up and help me, Sansa. Lyanna and those gnarled old advisors of hers will be here in ten minutes."

Sansa huffed and scrambled to find a comb somewhere in Arya's pig sty of a room – a search that took five of their precious ten minutes and pushed all thoughts of curious copper stains out of her head.

* * *

"Jon!"

Jon spun, already grinning at the sound of his youngest sister's voice. She was trotting towards him, feet nimble on the frosty ground and patches of ice, and Jon was nearly overwhelmed with how much she'd grown since they'd parted from each other all those years ago. How much everything had changed.

"Stop staring, you idiot." She thwacked him with Needle. Well. Perhaps not _all_ things had changed. Jon didn't think he'd ever be so delighted to be struck by a blade, but there it was. "You needed me?"

Tormund grumbled beside him. "Aye, little Stark. Your damned stupid brother's lost his mind."

Jon huffed and Arya laughed. "I only said it couldn't hurt. Don't you want your people to be as prepared as possible?"

Tormund shoved him. "Prepared? We've fought crows and dead people, and army after army. It's not my people you should be worrying about." He turned to Arya. "Pretty lad forgets who saved his sorry arse whenever he's gotten himself into trouble."

Arya grinned, slyly, and shot her brother a look that immediately had him tensing. "Ah, I see how it is, Giantsbane. The wildling soldiers are lacking, is it? Well, I'm sure I can whip them into shape."

Jon groaned and Tormund roared. "Lacking? Fucking lacking, Starkling? Why don't you look at your little boys fresh out their mother's bellies with the balls to match. _Lacking._ "

Jon nudged her shoulder with his. "You'll pay for that later," he muttered as they watch Tormund storm off, his great voice rumbling from his chest about Starks, and pride, and " _I should have let those fuckers die in the first place. Save myself some trouble."_

"I hope so," Arya grinned.

"Where were you anyway? I haven't pulled you from something important?"

Arya grimaced. "Isn't it all important at this stage. Not a second to lose, or so Sansa keeps saying whenever she sends me on some errand or other." Jon looked solemn and nodded. King in the North or not, he'd been reduced to Sansa's messenger boy more than once, and he wasn't ashamed to admit he'd went meekly. "But I was just visiting Gendry. He was melting down the old steel."

"I can tell."

Arya snapped to face him at the teasing lilt in his voice. He was smirking, his dark eyes dancing along her hairline. Deftly, he reached up with gloved hands and plucked a small reddish crusted flake of _something_ from the strands that were so like his own.

Arya stilled as she showed it to her.

"Rust," he explained happily. "Training the recruits not enough for you, little sister? You have to try your hand at smithing as well?"

She couldn't believe her luck. Arya had heard the teasing Jon often got – usually from the wildlings – about being dense and oblivious and knowing nothing. But could she truly be so luck that he was _that_ clueless.

Jon patted her on the shoulder. "Gendry has plenty of help. I'm sure he appreciates the company – but his talents are in the forge and yours are behind the blade. And I need you where you can help me, Arya. Not hauling rusty swords around for Waters."

Apparently yes, she could.

She laughed part exhilarated and relived, part hysterical and in disbelief, and let Jon tuck her under his arm as he ruffled her hair and dragged her off to thrash Wildlings five times her size.

* * *

It was rare they could take a moment for themselves.

Nights were getting longer and colder, and they all knew the time would be upon them soon to face this war, but tonight – tonight they had made the Great Hall warm and prepared what food they could without being wasteful and came together to make merry.

It was late into the night. Jon was pleased to see that everyone had made the most of the opportunity to live for a night. From servant to nobility, all were welcome to share in the hospitality of the Starks that night, and the hall had shook with music and dance and raucous laughter.

Most had given up the ghost and left for their beds. Sansa had departed an hour ago, up since before the dawn making sure everything was perfectly in place. Jon sat, with Tormund and Podrick, Bronn and Jamie Lannister, and Sandor Clegane slumped against a wall nearby, eyes closed and breaths deep and even.

"Wait until he wakes up," a hoarse breath laughed into his ear and Jon jolted, spilling half his ale over the table. "I'll never let the lightweight live this down."

" _Arya_ ," he breathed. "Fuck sake. Tread heavier, just for my sake."

She cackled and perched herself on the table – as there was no more room on the bench. Podrick, gallant lad that he was and utterly taken with his little sister, found some cloth and mopped up Jon's spill so she could sit without getting her breeches wet. She tipped her cup at him in thanks.

Jon reached over and squeezed her knee. _Hard_. He remembered she used to hate it when they were children, and sure enough she yelped and swung her free hand round and thwacked him around the head.

"Stop it, you shit head!"

"My Lady Arya!"

Jon glanced at Podrick, thinking he was about to protest about calling his King a _shit head_ , only he wasn't. He wasn't doing anything but staring at a sport on Arya's legs and pointing. "Did you injure yourself my lady? Should I fetch Maester Tarly?"

Jon quickly looked where he was pointing and saw the edges of a coppery brown hand print creeping from her thigh around to the back of her legs.

"Seven hells, Arya," he sighed. "Did you cut your hand again – did you at least wrap it? Wiping it on your breeches isn't enough, you know." He reached over and snatched her hands in his. "And the amount of tumbles you take in the dirt every day. I won't have it becoming infec-"

Jon frowned as her hands turned up clear of slices, gashes, pokes and any other type of wound.

"Arya what –"

"Gendry lad I'm tellin' ye, there is a world outside of that god forsaken forge of yours. And look – here it is!"

Davos entered the hall, one hand wrapped around the back of Gendry's neck and all but dragging him alongside. A cheer went up from their table, and Jon had everyone shuffle around to make room. There was just enough room for Davos to perch tenderly on the edge. Gendry meanwhile, simply shuffled up to Arya's side, and leant his hip against the table edge.

"M'lady," he smiled, and Arya grinned into her cup having ripped her hands out of Jon's grasp the second his attention had been diverted.

"Gendry."

Jon reach over and clapped him on the arm. "Glad you could join us at last, Gendry. Took your time, though."

Gendry chuckled and tipped his head. "Yeah I – uh – just wanted to get somethings cleared up at the forge. One of the crucibles had a crack in it and if we hadn't spotted that before the annealing tomorrow then w-"

Jon shook his head, all soft like and eyes bright as he smiled at his friend. "Don't think I'll ever stop being glad that Davos pulled you out of Fleabottom, Gendry. Truly, thank you."

Abashed Gendry ducked his head, but a proud smile blossomed across his face. "It's no bother. It's my forge to keep in order. Which Davos here seems to have taken exception to," Gendry laughed and brushed his hands against his clothes, leaving ruddy smears in their wake and holding up his palms covered in reddish powder for all to see. "Didn't even let me wash the rust off after tidying up before dragging me straight here."

Arya stilled, like deer when they heard the snapping twigs. Bronn sat up a little straighter, Jamie's face lit up with a smile and looked _giddy_ , and a small frown started to burrow between Jon's brows.

"Rust you say," Bronn drawled. "Leaves that residue behind does it?"

Gendry nodded ruefully. "It's a nightmare to get out."

Bronn swallowed a mouthful of wine to keep from cackling. He swallowed hard. "I bet it is."

Jamie snickered. "Well look at that now. Looks like Robert got his wish, after all."

Gendry's eyes darted between them all, confusion clear on his face. He side-eyed Arya, who closed her eyes and grimaced.

Jon stared at the offending hand print on her thigh. "That's not from a bloodied hand." His voice was low, almost like he was speaking to himself.

Arya tried to step in. "Jon –"

"It's from rust," he spoke over her. "From Gendry's workshop."

Finally, Gendry understood. His skin, normally ruddy and warm from his time in the forge paled. His eyes widened, panicked. He took a lumbering step back.

"Now Jon –"

Tormund was beside himself, cackling and pounding the table. "Didn't think you had it in you lad. You should have said! I wouldn't have kept quiet about that lass there if it were me!"

Jon growled, and thumped Tormund on the arm. "It's from rust from Gendry's _hands_."

Arya thrust herself off the table and positioned herself between her brother and Gendry. "Jon, calm down –"

But he glowered, his eyes fixed on Gendry. "Can you tell me it isn't?"

Arya may have become a spy, and assassin and soldier and a warrior, but in the face of her beloved older brother, she was a _shit_ liar. He traitorous lips were fixed shut, and Gendry was gaping, stammering, stuttering.

"I – uh, um. Jon, look Uh –"

Jon pounded the table and leapt to his feet, Bronn and Jamie cheering him on. Davos scurried forward and corralled Gendry by the collar, shaking him and muttering things Jon couldn't hear and didn't care about, but had Gendry blushing and protesting. Tormund was doing his best to be Gendry's champion. _"Ah what are you pissants fretting about? Nothing wrong with a boy and a girl enjoying some company. Nothing wrong with two girls, or two boys, or even a group –"_

"Tormund!"

Silence fell. Jon stared Gendry down. Gendry tried to swallow his fear and failed. After a second, Jon took his hand from the hilt of Longclaw, and watch as the tensions slowly, _slowly_ started to drain from Arya and Gendry's shoulders. He smirked. _Good_.

Low, purposeful, and commanding, Jon's voice echoed in the hall. " _Ghost._ To me."

"Ah, shit!" Gendry threw Davos' grip from around his next and fled the hall. Bronn and Jamie's whistles in his ears, and Tormund's cheers. "Run lad – run like the forge is Eastwatch!"

The hound bolted upright, Tormund's bellowing finally breaking through his heavy, ale-induced sleep.

"What's all your yammering about?!"

"Jon's trying to kill the blacksmith for fucking his sister."

Clegane snorted and lifted the nearest goblet to his lips and drained it. "About fucking time."


	14. House Baratheon

**From a prompt I received on tumblr. For a House that almost went extinct, Baratheons excelled at one thing.**

* * *

Arya thought it must have been some unwritten law of the Seven kingdoms that Baratheons were the most prolific procreators in Westeros.

Fucking _Gendry_.

She never forgot to take her moon tea. Ever. Even when they were in the midst of a war, she had a steady supply so that she and Gendry never had to deal with the consequences of their passions. But that one time, the _one_ time she had forgotten, and Gendry had been standing _just so_ in the light of the forge, and well – here they were.

The Maester Tarly had confirmed her suspicions, and after solemnly vowing to keep the news to himself (she may have threatened to wear his face, if he didn't. Jon would never let her of course, but _he_ didn't need to know that) she made her way to the forge.

It was early. There had been a feast the night before and she knew that Gendry – soft touch that he was – would have let the other smithies working under him sleep in for an hour or two. Sure enough, when she rounded the door, there he stood, all alone in his black leather apron, stoking the fires to life and looking as content as she'd ever seen him.

Gods, he made her smile like an idiot. It was embarrassing.

She kicked a stone and Gendry's head shot up and his eyes caught hers. "Arry. You're early."

She hummed. "I had a commitment to keep. I thought I would come keep you company."

Gendry, apparently, had stumbled across one of his rare moments of insight. "With the Maester?" Because who else would she be meeting before the sun had fully risen above the horizon.

"Yes."

He set him hammer on the anvil, stoked the fires some more, and stepped closer, crossing him arms over his chest. "Sore head from last night?" he smiled gently.

"Not quite."

"Well. That's enlightening."

She snorted and he huffed, and he went back to setting up his forge for today as she slowly trailed after him.

"Other husbands would show a little more concern," she said teasingly.

Gendry laughed. "Which is exactly why you married me, m'lady."

And gods if this babe wasn't unsettling her already, because suddenly she felt a prickling behind her eyes and an overwhelming need to embrace him. Instead, she said, "Foolish on my part, really."

Gendry grinned at her. "You can't undo what's been done. I'm yours now – for all days. Poor luck, Arry girl."

She watched him with a smile on her lips for a few moments, before the nerves bubbling in her belly compelled her to speak. "I suppose I should tell you, really."

Blue eyes flicked to her, thick brows creased slightly as he tried to temper concern he knew she wouldn't appreciate. "You should?"

"Yes. You see – I think Eddard is a wonderful name. I won't hear a word against it. But you can pick your favourite girl's name."

Gendry simply stood, confused. "Well, okay," he said, slowly. "And why do I need to pick my favourite girl's name."

Arya huffed, and sat heavily on an unused anvil. "Gods you are slow sometimes. I hope they don't have your mind."

" _Who - ?_ "

Arya lurched forward, grabbed his thick wrist and yanked it. She stared him in the eyes, a storm of grey and blue as she slowly, deliberately, brought it to rest on her belly.

By instinct, his thumb started to stroke her gently, but no comprehension lit his eyes. Arya lifted her other hand and thwacked him behind the head, pressing his hand more urgently on her.

"Gods Arya – stop hitting me. Use your words, you stupid little highbor-"

 _Ah. There it was._

Gendry stilled. His breathe held trapped in his broad chest. His eyes were fixed on his hand. Arya was fairly sure his heart had stopped beating. Until slowly, gently, his grasp tightened on her stomach.

"Arry," he choked. "Arry. Are you – is the Maester – are you _sure?_ "

"I would not tease you. Not about this."

Not about something he'd wanted so desperately but had convinced himself he couldn't have. Not if he was with her, and he'd made if perfectly clear that she was what he wanted above everything.

"I – Arya, we're having a child? You're with _child_?"

"We are."

And it was like fire had entered his veins. Gendry plucked her from the ground and clutched her two him in both arms. He spun her around and she wrapped her legs around him for purchase, and gods, she even laughed, breathless with pleasure at how _happy_ she had made him. After everything they had been through, from the King's Road to beyond the Wall, she'd finally been able to give him something he had always wanted.

"A family, Arya," he breathed, wet and delirious in her ear. "We're going to have a family. A girl! I want it to be a girl – a little you. Gods that would be perfect –"

"Oh, I don't know," she hummed as Gendry set her back on the anvil. "I wouldn't mind another stubborn, bull-headed boy running around here. I've gotten quite skilled at keeping them in hand."


End file.
